The Mysterious Dude Defence
by tenofswords
Summary: Sequel to 'Who Would Try'. Ecklie was taking orders, but from who, and why? Story complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: Previously on CSI...**

This story will make very little sense if you haven't read 'Who Would Try', it's predecessor. It's been a while since I finished the first story so here is a summary of it, just in case anything is missing...

Basically, after Ecklie splits the graveyard shift up in the episode 'Mea Culpa', Greg decides to fight back, and try to somehow reverse this detrimental scenario. Before he can act, however, the events of 'Nesting Dolls' take place (i.e. Sara yells at Catherine and promptly gets suspended by Ecklie for yelling at him too). In fact, Ecklie goes one step further and tries to fire Sara.

Greg learns (with a little help from Archie) that this is because Ecklie caught Sara on a hidden camera looking through what Ecklie _thought_ was his confidential record. It was, in fact, her own record. As Ecklie's record contained information that Sheriff Atwater would find very interesting, it was in Ecklie's best interests to ensure Sara's dismissal. But, by using Catherine in an elaborate double bluff, Greg sets Ecklie's plans at nines and Sara remains with the crime lab.

Shortly afterwards, the millionaire casino owner Bruce Eiger jumps off his own balcony, leaving behind a legacy of intrigue, hidden secrets, and soiled diapers (see 'King Baby'). Ecklie recruits Greg, who we now learn has been in his confidence for some time now, to retrieve Eiger's hidden files on all of Las Vegas' most prominent citizens. After a brief escapade with Nick and Sara, he succeeds, and brings Ecklie the files.

It is at this point that Warrick works out at least part of what Greg is up to. By comparing notes with a guilt-ridden Catherine, an angry Nick, and a confused Sara, he finds out that Greg stole evidence from the layout room, and learns of Catherine's role in the double bluff. He is rudely interrupted from his thoughts by a gunshot echoing through the lab...

Greg arrives at Ecklie's office and promises him enough dirt on Grissom to get him arrested in exchange for Ecklie leaving Sara alone. Blinded by greed, Ecklie readily agrees, and promptly learns that Greg has set him up, and has been working with Sheriff Atwater all along. After a desperate, ultimately futile, bid to escape (during which a gunshot echoes through the crime lab), Ecklie is arrested. The lab is rocked with celebrations. Greg is confident that Ecklie will give up the name of his contact outside the crime lab, and suggests that Grissom fill the vacancy of assistant director. The sheriff, however, has other ideas...

Anything I've missed? Oh, yeah. Greg and Sara are drifting steadily closer, and Grissom is dating Sophia Curtis. No one knows...well, Nick might have an inkling...


	2. Chapter 1: Not Over Yet

**The Mysterious Dude Defence**by tenofswords665

**_Warrick: _**She claims her husband was in the garage painting, and just done fell over.

**_Catherine:_** The ever-popular DFO. Right up there with the Mysterious Dude Defence.

(Quote from episode 3.22: Play With Fire.)

**Chapter 1 – Not Over Yet...**

**Disclaimer –** You name it I don't own it.

**Notes –** This is a follow up from my previous story 'Who would try'. By now you'll already have read the prologue, so I won't go into too many details, but I would advise you to read 'Who would try' before this one, cause it's not gonna make much sense otherwise. Sure? Okay then, here we go...

Gilbert Grissom sat up with a groan, and against his better judgement, opened his eyes. As expected, the resultant input of visual information was enough to make him squeeze his eyelids shut again. What was not expected (or welcome) was the screaming pain in his head.

Grissom had experienced hangovers before, but they were mostly dull brainaches, or at worst a steady thudding in his skull. He had felt blissfully few real head-busters like this one. What the hell had he been drinking last night? A horrible idea occurred to him. He forced his eyelids open and threw the covers back.

Oh, thank God! The body snoring soundly next to him was definitely feminine. He leaned back to allow his head to sink onto the pillows at ju-ust the right velocity to transport him softly back into the world of dreams...

And stopped abruptly three inches from the pillow. His entire form froze rigidly in place, and his eyes snapped open for what his visual cortex told him was an entirely unnecessary third time. Reluctantly accessing his memory banks, his mind had just put a face to the body next to him.

And it wasn't Sara...

Greg Sanders sat on his favourite chair in the break room and flicked through the papers in his hands. He scowled as he finished reading them. This wasn't disastrous, but it wasn't exactly joyous news either. What were they going to do now? Warrick Brown half-walked, half-tiptoed his way into the break room, trying not to disturb the otherwise occupied Sanders.

"Forget it, Warrick. The coffee isn't there."

"Damn!"

Greg's Blue Hawaiian coffee had long become the Holy Grail of the crime lab. Every CSI dreamed longingly of finding Greg's secret stash, but he had, thus far, managed to keep it securely hidden.

"So what's the word?"

"Ecklie lawyered up."

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

"I know, I know. I was so _sure_ he'd tell us who the old man was, or at least tell us what he did."

The 'Old Man' to whom Greg was referring was Conrad Ecklie's former contact outside the crime lab, a man who paid the erstwhile assistant director considerable sums of money to tamper with evidence in certain cases, and had thus far escaped positive identification.

"Isn't there any way to ID this guy from the photo. I mean, Archie's a genius with this kind of thing, maybe..."

"Greg, Archie has done absolutely everything in his power to ID the guy, but there's nothing. His face is obscured, there's no reflective surfaces...It's impossible."

"Great. So, any cases yet?"

Sara walked in, dark circles prominent under her eyes and an ice pack to her head. "Neither Grissom nor Catherine has checked in yet, so we're still waiting for assignments. And could you _please_ try not to breathe so loudly?"

"Geez, Sara! What planet were you on last night?"

"Probably somewhere in the Budweiser galaxy. You were really hurling 'em back, y'know."

Sara looked slightly defensive. "Yeah, well, we all were. We had a lot to celebrate, with Ecklie getting busted and the shift getting back together..."

"Hey, hey, hey! Don't jinx it! That's not a sure thing just yet."

"Oh come on, guys. If Grissom gets the assistant director post, then he'll put us back together like that." She snapped her fingers, and the resultant echo of sound in her eardrums briefly made her wish her father had met a different woman.

Warrick relaxed. "Yeah, I guess. You're right about last night though. I haven't had a hangover like that since I joined CSI. I'm amazed I woke up alone."

"Same here" declared Greg, "only in my case the last time I had a hangover like that was at Stamford, and I'm _not_ amazed I woke up alone. Depressed, but not amazed."

"You want a cuddle?"

"Fuck off, Nick."

For it was he, with a noted absence of dark circles or ice packs, who had just entered, and voiced the overly sarcastic query.

"Nick, you are looking _way_ too healthy for someone who was chugging Jack Daniels last night."

"What can I say?" Nick beamed a smile that seemed to Warrick to be tailor-made to annoy people who were hung-over. "I guess I can just hold my drink a little better than the next guy."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...since you're obviously more alert than the rest of us, any news?"

Nick's smile faded. "Let's, uh, let's hear about Ecklie first. Any developments?"

Greg was slightly puzzled at the change of subject, but answered. "Ecklie pounced on his right to shut the hell up and he's holding it. No luck there."

"Shit!" Nick's smile was now completely gone. Replacing it was an alarming mixture of frustration and apprehension.

"You, uh, you okay Nick?" asked Sara, concerned.

"I hate this..." Nick took a breath and looked ready to run. "Grissom's not getting the promotion."

"What?" Greg dropped his head to his open hands while Warrick sighed in frustration.

"I know I know I know. I don't know who's getting it, but the Sheriff specifically doesn't want Grissom. I heard him saying Gris has the people skills of a dead cockroach and the admin capabilities of a dead cockroach's pal."

Sara hissed between her teeth. "That's great. So, if it's not Grissom, we might not get back together, and Cath might get stuck with swing shift?"

Nick brightened "No, the sheriff also said that Cath is definitely getting days. Says she's earned it several times over, but it might take a couple of weeks before she's transferred, paperwork, replacements, red tape, pumpkin pie, yadayadayada."

"Pumpkin pie?"

"Forget it, Greg. Anyhow, there's still no word of what happens to us, or Cath's replacement as swing shift supervisor, so..."

"Okay, that's something, but it still leaves us the problem of Ecklie." Warrick mused.

"What about the charges? They're still good, right?"

It was Greg who spoke this time. "Ecklie is primarily being charged with Tampering with State's Evidence. Of the six counts, four are supported by evidence and two are provable beyond reasonable doubt. He's also being charged with assault with a deadly weapon. I can testify to that with Brass's account to support it."

A worried look crossed Sara's face as she remembered how spooked Greg had seemed when he'd told her about Ecklie going for the knife, as well as Brass's unearthly speed and accuracy. For the first time in several months, his hands had been shaking...

"The Obstruction of Justice charge was, I thought, a given, but apparently that could go either way (some legal motion by our favourite public defender, Maggie Finn), and the Bribery and Corruption charge means jack shit without the old man."

"So to get Ecklie with everything, we need the old man..." began Sara.

"...But we don't know who he is..." Nick continued.

"...And Ecklie's not gonna tell us anything." Warrick finished.

Greg was grinning, an air of determination about him. "You know what that means."

"Yeah." Said Grissom from the doorway, making everyone jump a couple of feet in the air. The light in his eyes was a combination of childlike glee and fierce tenacity.

"We're going to have to do it the hard way."

_**(Cue the Titles and The Who)**_

**Author's Note:** Okay, I've got to get this off my chest. I cannot BELIEVE I went through an entire story and never once remembered to thank everyone who had taken the time and effort to review 'Who Would Try'! I know it's a little late now, but here it is anyway:

Thank you, AzureHart and Chrissy0, for kickass (also funny) reviews,

Thank you, Insanechildfanfic, for constant reassurance,

Thank you, Princess Artemis and Dragon of Athena, for bearing with me,

Thank you, Iscariot, for constructive criticism,

Thank you, Kapparan Majic and kegel, for letting me know chapter five was okay,

Thank you, wdbydoglvr, for endless support,

Thank you, FicFreak6 and spacegal 19, for thoughtful encouragement (that's a word, right?),

Thank you, Catlover2x, for telling me I should write this next tale,

Thank you, missusmesser, angw and IndiaArlie, for telling me to go on when I'd almost given up,

And thank you, Special Agent Meg, for reading and reviewing even though the story is done. It means a lot to me.

I hope you all enjoy this next venture! Stay tuned! 


	3. Chapter 2: Worst Laid Plans

**Chapter 2 – Worst Laid Plans.**

**Disclaimer – **This is very bad for my ego, but no, I don't own CSI or any other TV show.

**Notes –** Spoilers for 'Mea Culpa'. This chapter is shorter than the last one, 'cause I'm still thinking up ideas. I have a basic plotline, but the specifics are still coming to me. Anyway, here goes.

Catherine was not in the throes of a screaming hangover, but that didn't mean she didn't feel a dull thudding in her head. Boy, had she lost it last night. Still, she'd had good reason, a reason that not even the ache in her brain could dampen. Ecklie was gone, Lindsey's test scores and grades were back up, and Rory Atwater had confirmed that her promotion to Day shift supervisor would be effective within three weeks.

All in all, not a bad night. And she had woken up with...

No. Not going there. Didn't happen. Is not, was not, will not be. Negative in every sense. She was happy, and no memory of this morning was going to irritate her. Even if it did mean her forgetting about waking up with...

No! NO! End of discussion! End of story!

She turned her mind to the main topic of the crime lab: Ecklie's refusal to co-operate. Grissom had said 'Let's do it the hard way' and Cath was only too willing to oblige. She had spent enough years on the job to know that the first step was to get a warrant for Ecklie's home.

That was where she, Nick and Warrick were now, trying to find any evidence of the mystery man's presence in Ecklie's house. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and Catherine Willows was of the opinion that once you started _anything_, it could be finished, if only you were good enough to finish it.

Grissom, meanwhile, was with Brass and their new Assistant District Attorney, trying one last time to convince Ecklie that it was in his best interests to talk. Not a task she envied them. She would take evidence over accounts any day, particularly from Ecklie. Sophia Curtis was in the evidence lab, trying to make sense of the specific cases Ecklie had tampered with. Finally, Sara and Greg were working the only other case of the night, a robbery-turned-homicide over on Fremont Street.

Catherine was currently dusting for prints, while Nick checked the floor and walls for any visible trace. With Vega clearing the garage, that left Warrick to examine the master bedroom. Catherine didn't really want to wonder what was lurking there.

"Hey, guys!" That was Vega. "You might want to see this..."

Cath and Nick downed tools and headed for the garage. Vega directed their eyes to the fridge, inside which was a fat stack of cash, easily four hundred grand, and a single word on the bag that contained it.

'Garbett.'

Cath's eyes narrowed at the sight of so much money. " '_It must be nice to be independently wealthy'_...you hypocrite son of a bitch..."

Nick glanced over at her. "Say again, Cath?"

"Oh, nothing. Just something Ecklie said to me right before the shift split. Doesn't matter. I'm, err, guessing that this was what Ecklie was paid to kick a case or two, or get them kicked in court."

"How the hell did he keep all this from his wife? I mean, hiding money in the damn fridge?"

"Who says he hid it from her?" piped up Vega. "Maybe she knew about it, and just kept her mouth shut."

"Possible" concurred Catherine. "Okay, I guess I'll check how Warrick's doing. Meanwhile, Nick, get a very large evidence bag and don't take any of the cash for yourself."

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

"Your faith in me remains a constant inspiration..." murmured Nick. He set to work.

Warrick came down the stairs looking slightly puzzled. Cath met him at the bottom.

"How'd you do upstairs?"

"I don't know what the hell I was expecting to find, but I was thinking at least part of it would be stuff that belonged to his wife. I mean, what kind of stuff do you have in your bathroom, your bedroom?"

Cath grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know? All right, mostly stuff like moisturiser, hair spray, lipstick, lots of dresses...what you'd find in any woman's bedroom."

"Not here. There's just deodorant and hair gel. No evidence of Ecklie's wife ever having lived here. Maybe she up and left him."

Cath frowned. "Or maybe he made her go away..."

"You're not thinking...?" Warrick saw that she was. "Okay, Ecklie's an asshole and he's corrupt, but I just don't see him killing his own wife."

Catherine was unmoved. "A few days ago I didn't see him taking bribes or trying to slash Greg's throat. Now the rule is Assume Nothing."

"Still, maybe she just found out about Ecklie getting busted and went for a divorce."

Cath could see that Warrick was hoping Ecklie's wife was still alive, and she couldn't blame him. But they had a job to do. "He got arrested yesterday. She must have done the fastest pack-up-and-go in the long sad history of divorces. And she probably would have taken all of his stuff too."

"Yeah, and the only stuff I found missing was hers...So we might have a dead body on our hands as well?"

"I hope not. Let's find out what we do have before we find out what we might have."

Cath went back to the lounge, where she was still lifting prints. Suddenly she felt tired, and her head was pounding afresh. She cursed mentally. Apparently her hangover wasn't done with her _just_ yet.

Or maybe the idea that they had been working alongside a potential killer was what was giving her grief...

Meanwhile, down in interrogation. Brass was losing his patience. Ecklie had been giving them the run-around for almost forty-five minutes now, ignoring even the most basic and elementary explanations that talking to him and Grissom would take some of the heat off his back. He had shrugged his way through threats, taunted his way through reasonable, good-cop cajoling, and simply poked fun at an increasingly irate Grissom at every opportunity.

"I'm losing my cool here, Ecklie. Who is the old guy in the photo?" Brass growled.

"We know he bribed you to kick some of the cases we took to court." Grissom was trying to keep a calm tone of voice, and marginally succeeding. "Maybe he threatened you as well? There's nothing we can do about the assault charge, you brought that on yourself, but if you give us his name, then maybe we can get some of the obstruction of justice charges kicked. Maybe we can get you, say, ten years, perhaps seven, instead of twenty."

"How's Sara doing these days, Gil? Or, did you take my advice, and start doing Sophia?"

Grissom clenched his fists. His normally inexhaustible temper was running out. "Look, Ecklie, if you don't tell us anything, you take the whole weight on your shoulders..."

"Still, the idea of you being able to handle Sophia is kind of laughable, and Sara's probably got a little too much going on up here" Ecklie tapped the side of his head "to really pay any attention to you, so I guess that leaves Catherine, and she only sleeps with people to advance her career..."

Grissom had a dangerous smile on his face. "Oh, boy, haven't I had enough of this..."

The new ADA (a ball-breaker if Brass had ever seen one) laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. She leaned over the table, placing her hands knuckles-down on the metal surface, and spoke in a cool, yet intimidating voice.

"Mr. Ecklie, you know that Dr. Grissom and the other CSI's are going to find out who it is with or without your help, so even if you genuinely are covering for someone other than yourself, it is a perfectly pointless exercise. And you're one of my first cases here," her voice turned introspective "so I'm hoping to use you to open up some good relations, maybe make a name for myself. At first I was planning to go easy and give you seven to eight years in a medium security jail, maybe even an open facility, but you're starting to piss me off, so I think I'll put you in a Federal lockup over in Carson City, maybe...Lorenz Angelo State Prison? With the gang-bangers and heavy duty killers?"

Ecklie's smug expression faded. He looked from Brass to Grissom, avoiding the lawyer's eyes. "If I say a word, he will kill me, protection or no protection."

Brass leaned in, ready to exploit this chink in Ecklie's emotional armour. "Hey, listen, we can look after you, make sure this guy never touches you. If we put you in a safe house, maybe change your name..."

But Ecklie was calm again. "I've made my decision. As your new girlfriend says, you don't need me." Ecklie's smugness was back in full force.

"So go find him."

With a collective sigh, the cop, the scientist, and the prosecutor left the interrogation room. They weren't too disappointed, only tired. They hadn't really expected Ecklie to start talking now if he hadn't before, but interrogations were difficult, emotionally draining affairs.

Brass had been impressed by their new Assistant District Attorney's last effort, though. It was clear that she had done this before, would have been clear even if Brass hadn't known a little bit about her. Apparently, she used to work in New York as a narcotics cop before becoming a lawyer under the Executive Assistant District Attorney there. By all accounts, he was a real asshole...

"Well, I can't say I'm too surprised. I guess we really will have to do it the hard way," said Grissom. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Carmichael."

"The pleasure's all mine, Dr. Grissom, Captain Brass." She shook their hands and turned to leave.

"By the way, the name's Abbie."

**Author's Note:** I have absolutely NO idea whether or not this last development is appropriate, as I have not seen Season 11 of Law and Order yet. If Carmichael dies instead of merely retiring from New York law enforcement, please let me know, and I'll change Abbie Carmichael into one of her luckier counterparts on the series. Thanks!

**P.S.** Also, is it okay for me to do this kind of ironic crossover with another series?


	4. Chapter 3: Deadends and Dumbasses

**Chapter 3 – Dead-ends and Dumbasses.**

**Disclaimer – **I own CSI! I rule the Universe! Jorja Fox and Marg Helgenburger do lap dances for me every night! (Sounds of hysterical laughter gradually turn to sobs.)

**Notes **– Spoilers from no episode. This is basically a little comic relief. And a plot thickener. 

"Okay, Sara, I'm trying to make sense of this, see a deeper reason for it, but nothing's coming. Help me out here."

Sara grinned and walked over to a bemused Greg. They were at the 419 location where a pair of enterprising young would-be armed robbers had decided to start their shining career. The result had been an unqualified screw-up that had left one bad guy dead and the other on the run.

Detectives Denver and Vartann were done taking the witness statements from the owner (some poor old Cambodian guy who looked close to collapsing), the customers and a guy across the street who saw the whole thing. Each account supported the other, so it wasn't likely that they were lying.

Apparently, both guys had arrived in a green Cadillac devoid of licence plates wearing ski masks and jumpsuits and carrying sawn-off shotguns. They had entered the shop, demanded the cash from the register, and one had promptly blown the other's head off!

The remaining guy had just stood there for a moment, then he'd taken off out the door and down Fremont Street. On foot. In a ski mask and carrying a shotgun. In broad daylight.

Meanwhile the vehicle they had arrived in remained on the side of the road, without licence plates and with the keys in the ignition. Hence Gregory's confusion.

"My guess would be, plain stupidity." Sara knew a moron when she saw one's handiwork.

"So, what, do we check the inside of the vehicle for trace evidence, or do we just wait for this guy to trip over a shoelace and blow himself in two?"

In answer, Sara shone her torch inside the vehicle. "Greg, what's that?"

Greg pulled on a pair of latex gloves and checked where Sara was pointing. "Well spotted, Sar. Let's see, it's a...oh, you have GOT to be kidding!"

"What? What is it?" Sara could tell from Greg's tone of voice that it was something good.

Smirking wryly, Greg pulled a MacDonald's uniform shirt from under the seat. The nametag featured a grinning Ronald MacDonald with a speech bubble that read 'Hi! My name is Paul!'

"Oh, yeah. We're clearly dealing with a couple of jeniuses here. Emphasis on the 'J'"

Greg was shaking his head, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "What kind of a moron gets changed for a heist inside the car, then leaves the car at the scene with the evidence inside?"

"The kind that shoots his own partner in the back before they've got the cash. Okay, while you check the local MacDonald's restaurants for a Paul who owns a green caddy, I will see if I can't ID our dead felon."

"Let me finish up inside the car first. You never know, they might have forgotten to wear gloves and left prints on the gear shift."

"Judging from what we've seen here, I wouldn't put that level of intelligence past these two bozos."

"Hey, Sara!" Vartann was yelling to get her attention. Sara walked over to him.

"Denver may have just found your murder weapon. Sawn-off shotgun found in the bushes over there, along with a ski mask."

"Ooh. Good for Denver. And great for me. Let's take a look."

* * *

Jaqui Franco, hailed throughout the Las Vegas Crime lab as the Princess of Prints, sat at her desk, waiting for AFIS to spit out a result. Catherine Willows, soon-to-be Day shift supervisor and Franco's best friend in Vegas, had given her fifty-three prints to run, and Franco was currently doing what she did best. Running them.

Franco was the best at what she did for two main reasons. Firstly, she knew by heart almost every technique for turning unviable prints into viable ones. She could use vacuum metal deposition on plastic bags in record time, she could identify the most obscure details on blurred or partial prints, she could separate any number of overlapping prints on a surface, you name it.

Secondly, she wasn't bored by the wait as AFIS examined her prints for her. Most lab techs could be driven mad by just standing around doing nothing as their machines did their ponderous work, but patience was one of Jaqui's virtues. She could wait for days for a print if she had to, eating and sleeping at the lab. What time she lost there, she made up for in spades later on...

The machine buzzed harshly. Jaqui was caught out by the unfamiliar sound. She leaned in to examine the screen, and frowned. "What the hell?"

Franco tried a few choice keys that had always helped her in the past, but five minutes and a slap on the mainframe later, the same result was present. Rubbing her brow in confusion, she headed off to find Cath.

She wasn't going to like this...

* * *

Sara and Greg were still laughing when Grissom and Catherine found them, holding their sides, their faces beetroot red, practically doubled over.

"Wow. What did we miss?"

At the sound of Catherine's voice, Sara pulled herself together as well as she could. "Grissom. Cath. Good, we-we wanted to tell you..." Sara broke of as a wave of hysterics broke over her. She swallowed and continued. "Okay, um, we wanted to tell you that we are done with the Robbery-Homicide case, and if you guys need backup on a **real** case, here it is."

"You finished up already?" Grissom was astounded. "How did you manage that?"

"Our guy was a few fries short of a happy meal." Greg broke in, his laughs reduced to the occasional giggle. "It wasn't exactly difficult to get him."

So Greg and Sara told Grissom and Catherine about the car with the shirt inside, and how one guy had accidentally killed the other. Sara told them how the tossed shotgun had in fact been the murder weapon. Bobby Dawson from Ballistics had confirmed a match between cartridge cases at the scene and cartridges inside the gun. Also, prints from inside the vehicle and on the gun had matched one Paul Metts from Utah. His prints were in AFIS for an indecent exposure charge three years ago.

Paul Metts had turned out to be a sullen, oily-haired little asshole, ugly as a bucket of crap and about half as intelligent. Greg had caught him at the fourth MacDonald's he came to, trying to explain to his boss why he was late for work and why he had turned up in a jumpsuit with blood splattered on the front. Detective Denver had nearly wet himself laughing when he made the arrest.

Then there was the interrogation room. Oh, they would not forget that for a while.

When the suspect had been brought in for questioning, Greg had asked him why the hell he had left his vehicle at the scene and hightailed it on foot. Metts' response was that he had forgotten which car was his.

At this point Sara had pointed out, slowly and carefully, as if she was speaking to a very dull child, that his car had been the only green Cadillac without licence plates for three miles. Metts, growing sulkier by the minute, had told her that he hadn't taken off the licence plates, his friend John (the dead guy) had, so how was he to know?

Greg had then chimed in with the further revelation that the Cambodian owner kept all of the store's income in a very large safe with a combination lock. Greg had been wondering, how had Einstein and Newton been planning to break into the safe without the aid of blowtorches, explosives or any other form of safe-cracking equipment?

Metts had explained to Greg, as if _he _had been the one who was talking to a doofus and not the other way around, that they weren't going to break the safe, just take it with them. In case that wasn't enough, Metts added a schoolyard style 'Duuuhh!'

An exasperated Sara decided to skip the obvious difficulties of two fairly skinny men trying to lift a two-ton safe out of a shop while still holding the entire place at gunpoint, and went straight to the blindingly obvious; that the safe wouldn't fit inside the Cadillac anyway.

"No problem, lady. We were gonna call a pickup truck." That had genuinely been the response of the increasingly stupid Metts.

Greg, now realising that they had planned to leave their vehicle behind all along, had tried to enlighten this perfect example of stupidity as to how such a course of action would have led to their arrest. Metts had looked at them craftily, about to reveal the _really _clever part of his plan; they were going to bribe the cops. Metts also asked the two CSI's if they were interested in a share of the money.

Greg had cupped his hands together and almost yelled "**But you don't have the money!**" Metts had the answer, as always.

"How about an IOU until I can hit that place again?"

That was all it took. Sara's head had thumped down onto the desk as her poor, tired brain tried to make some sense of what this certified idiot was saying to her, while Greg exploded into gales of laughter. Vartann, not without difficulty and through tears of mirth, led the suspect away to the lockup.

Having heard this story, it was all Catherine could do to look more than a little confused. "But...if he...wait a minute...his friend took off the...plates...but wouldn't he...have known...? Wait...maybe...I...I don't..."

"Don't tell me you're trying to find common sense in this?" Grissom was wearing an expression of wry amusement. It was not the first time he had dealt with morons; he had seen this kind of thing many times over.

But Catherine persisted. "And he went straight back to his workplace afterwards? In bloody clothes? I mean, was this guy not aware of the concept of forward planning?"

"I don't think this guy was aware of the concept of putting one foot in front of the other!" Greg was still howling.

"Wait, wait. This is the really amazing part. Greg found a fake shotgun in the car, and I found one at the scene. Apparently, our guys were planning on using the fakes to hold up the store, and were only going to break out the real one if it turned ugly. Paul Metts just picked up the wrong gun." Sara was beaming.

"I still don't get how this guy could _possibly_ have mistaken a real shotgun for a plastic one, or how they were going to get out of the store if the owner found out they weren't really armed." Greg interjected.

Grissom held up his hand. "See, this is why I do bugs. I gave up trying to work out _human_ behaviour a long time ago."

Sara got to the point. "Anyhow, we're free if you need any help with the Ecklie case. How is that going, by the way?"

Cath checked her watch. "Jaqui should be done with the prints soon. We'll know then."

"You'll know now." Franco entered the room looking about as pissed off as Catherine had ever seen her at work. At least, since she lost that bet with Greg...

Grissom cut to the chase. "What's up with our prints?"

Franco took a breath. "Okay, obviously I got Ecklie and his wife, Angela, their prints are everywhere, but I found another set on Ecklie's desk. Ran 'em through AFIS, and they came back Compliance!"

"Uh, oh!" Greg sat bolt upright, his earlier jolly look replaced by one of deep apprehension. A Compliance result meant that the prints belonged to someone within the department.

"That's not the worst part. When I asked for clarification, the computer told me the information was unavailable. I tried a break-in code that usually works when AFIS freezes, but the details just weren't there!" Jaqui looked mad as hell, and Grissom couldn't blame her.

If the prints were on file but there were no specifics, that meant only one thing: Someone had tampered with AFIS.

And now the entire crime lab had become one collective suspect!

**Author's Note: **Sorry about this chapter taking a while. I was low on ideas, and I **had **to get that Weeping Willows thing off my chest (see 'What I'm Here For'). I'll try and make the next one a little faster.

**P.S. wdbydoglvr – **If you're there, would you mind telling me, what is a Snickers challenge, what is an Unbound Improv response, and what is a C2 community? I'm probably being thicker than the guy I'm writing for this chapter, but I'm still new to this, and I'm curious. Please tell me? Thanks!


	5. Chapter 4 Suspicions

**Chapter 4 – Suspicions.**

**Disclaimer – **I don't own CSI, I don't rule the universe, and I'm pretty sure Marg and Jorja have stopped taking my calls! And then there was the incident with Mr. Petersen, oh boy, I don't even want to go there...bad karma, dire consequences, etc.

However, I DO own Detective Denver and IA agent Phelps. Hahaa!

**Notes –** Spoilers from 'Jackpot' and 'Early Rollout'.

By the next morning the whole lab had heard the news. A compliance print in the Ecklie case, with no leads from AFIS as to whom it might belong to. To make matters worse, even though they were meant to make matters better, Internal Affairs had been called in, and were examining personnel files and conducting private interrogations.

All with their usual charm, decorum, and subtlety, of course.

Archie Johnson was on his way to the AV lab to process a highly confidential tape (in reality one of his many _Iron Maiden_ recordings), when he accidentally got in the way of IA agent Phelps. He said "Sorry. Excuse me." She replied, pleasantly enough "Shut up and get out of my way." This can be regarded as a good example of the atmosphere in the crime lab.

Bear in mind that on Phelps' scale this was the absolute pinnacle of good manners. During the numerous interrogations she seemed to regard as an alternative means of sustenance, she rarely had the patience for such etiquette.

Naturally, by the end of that day, levels of paranoia and suspicion had reached a new high, not to mention irritability, tiredness and frustration. All in all, IA were doing what they did best; taking a bad situation and making it worse. And doing a damn fine job, too.

"How could it be compliance? I mean, who here would side with Ecklie?"

The CSI's, cops and lab techs were all gathered in the break room, wondering what the IA investigation would turn up (if anything), and how it would affect the crime lab. They had all had their prints taken, and each set was being run through AFIS against the unknown compliance set.

"We'll find out soon enough. At least, that's what that damn IA lady said." Vega was the picture of discomfort. Truth be told, the idea of a traitor in the crime lab was an anathema to him. He still couldn't believe it, really.

They had sat in quiet thought for almost an hour, waiting for the results. Wondering. Finally Sara had broken the silence, and the others were all too glad to speak up. They needed the conversation.

Catherine turned to a morose Grissom. "Listen, Gil, don't think I'm saying anything against you, but, you and Ecklie were partners once. Out of everyone here, you always tried to be civil to him and call him Conrad instead of Ecklie. Is it possible that you...?"

Grissom held up his hand. "I know where you're going with this. I haven't been to Ecklie's house recently, although he did invite me, back when we were a team. It was...awkward, even then. I suppose it's presumptuous to use the expression 'hate at first sight' but I have to admit, that's what it felt like."

Cath leaned back. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Nick turned to Greg. "What about you? Greggo? I mean, from what Atwater told us, this whole Ecklie bust thing was your idea to begin with. You had to get him to trust you, and with Ecklie that's hard." Murmurs of agreement from the room in general. "If you went to his house with that mission, then that wouldn't carry any implications for you. You'd have a cast iron excuse for your prints being there." Nick's voice offered a reassurance that no one else in the room felt.

Greg shook his head. "Ecklie never fully trusted me. At least, not enough to let me enter his house, even if I wanted to."

Sophia Curtis spoke up. "Perhaps we're looking at this the wrong way. I don't think it was a CSI who went to Ecklie's house." Her eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. "Has anyone considered the coroners?"

Detective Travis turned to face her. "What? Doc Robbins and that David kid? Why would they be involved in something like this?"

"Well, I checked the cases Ecklie had screwed with before we busted him, and it turns out that one of them was a case me and Mitchovitch from days worked, back when I was on days, that is. This guy beat a man to death with some kind of blunt object. Doc Robins said that he couldn't determine the cause of death, and then two days later David Philips lost the body. He got three days unpaid leave." Sophia's tone was introspective, calculating.

"Balls." Greg broke in. "It's not the Doc, it's not David, and it's no-one in this room. It's Hodges!" For he was, indeed, not present.

Warrick sighed. "Greg, you know you can't just go around accusing people just cause you don't like 'em!"

"Oh, come on! I mean, he brought Ecklie a card when he got his promotion! Did anyone else here do that?"

"I did." Sophia looked sullen. "Before he demoted me, that is..."

"Um...I,I did, kind of..." The crime lab's intern receptionist Judy raised a trembling hand. She looked on the verge of tears, as if she had committed a moral atrocity. "I...I just thought i-it would be a n-nice gesture" she said hurriedly. "I didn't know he was such a horrible man until..."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." Catherine said comfortingly. "It's not illegal to send your boss a card, even if he is an asshole. You didn't break a code of honour or anything like that."

Greg tried to draw attention away from an increasingly uncomfortable Judy. "Okay, my point is that Hodges has always been a real kiss-ass when it comes to Ecklie. If someone came to him with a deal, I bet he would go for it."

"Yeah, but bets aren't good enough Greg. You need evidence." Grissom was grinning wryly at him. "And you need to forget the fact that you and Hodges are rivals at pretty much everything, and concentrate on the case."

"Yeah, I've been concentrating on the case." O'Riley spoke up. "And I'm thinkin', maybe we should be checkin' out the lab techs. All the evidence goes through them." he continued, steadfastly ignoring the cries of outrage from several of the lab techs present, including Mia Dickerson, Archie Johnson, and Bobby Dawson. "If I was gonna grease some palms, that's where I'd go."

Bobby Dawson rose to the challenge. "Well, fuck you too, O'Riley! Maybe we should be checking on ageing cops in cheap, off-the-rack suits!"

The old New Yorker turned to the Texan calmly. "Hey, don't say anything about my clothes pal. I paid for these clothes."

Dawson raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh yeah? And that Ferrari? You didn't get _that_ on a cop's salary."

"Children! Play nice." Grissom growled warningly from the corner.

Then Detective Cavaliere threw his oar in. "What about Catherine? Y'know, I've always wondered, where DID all that money come from? One minute you're finances are sucky, then suddenly you're on easy street. What's that about?"

Catherine didn't bother looking at Grissom. She knew she wouldn't get any help from that quarter, and she didn't need it. Putting a restraining hand on an irate Warrick's shoulder, she looked Cavaliere straight in the eye, an action the Hispanic detective found far more difficult.

When she spoke, her words carried frostbite with them. "Not that it's your business, or anyone's business for that matter, but that money didn't come from Ecklie. It came from Sam Braun. My father." Coming out of her mouth, the word 'father' sounded like an infectious disease. "He gave me the money because as much as I didn't want to admit it, I needed it. Would you like to know why?"

No one in the room spoke. They all felt like they were listening to something they shouldn't be hearing. Yet none of them could quite make themselves leave the room...

Catherine continued, and as before, her voice was iron lined with ice. "Because roughly a year ago, my mother was declared bankrupt. She lost her home, her job, her whole life."

The atmosphere in the break room had turned from one of suspicion to one of stunned sympathy inside five seconds. No one, not even Grissom, had known about this.

"My mother begged me not to tell anyone, but somehow Sam Braun found out. He gave me the money in order to help her get back on her feet. She would never have accepted the money from him directly, not after all these years..."

Grissom nodded slowly, finally understanding. The stubbornness of Catherine's mother was legendary. He could imagine how painful it would have been for her to even accept the money from her own daughter, let alone from the man who left her with child all those years ago.

Catherine continued, voice thick with cold anger. "As it was outside of the lab's jurisdiction, I had hoped that I would be allowed to simply let my mother get back on her feet with some of her dignity intact. But news travels fast, and apparently this crime lab cannot let even one thing slide. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate being made to break my promise of silence. Thank you so much."

Catherine's burning stare swept the whole room before she dropped her head. No one could quite bring themselves to look at anything but the floor, and Cavaliere felt like ramming his head through the nearest wall.

The resulting atmosphere of awkward silence lasted for another fifteen minutes, then Jaqui Franco came in with Agent Phelps. "I've got the results on th..." was as far as Franco got before Phelps snatched the paper out of her hand.

"You're all clean. Get back to work." Phelps stalked off with every hint of a hunter whose prey has eluded her.

Jaqui sent a venomous glare after Phelps, then turned to the room at large. "As I was saying, the compliance print doesn't match anyone in this room. Including me. Damn IA bitch, making me run my own prints..."

Greg opened his mouth. "And no Greg, it's not Hodges." Greg closed his mouth.

"So who is it?" Sophia was waiting eagerly.

"Unknown. Whoever it is doesn't work at our crime lab, not unless he or she has got two sets of prints." Jaqui looked ready to hit the wall.

"But that's not possible!" Sara's voice reflected her frustration. "Compliance means someone in **this** department!"

"I just..." For the first time since she took her job, Franco looked genuinely lost. "I don't know what to do...I guess I could run the compliance print through AFIS..."

"Why bother? You'll just get the same result. Compliance with no name attached." Nick's voice was grim.

"There is one glimmer of hope on the horizon." Jaqui brightened marginally. "I didn't get a chance to run it until now, what with IA buzzing around, but the compliance print wasn't the only one in Ecklie's house. There was one last set that Catherine lifted off a door handle. These prints aren't in AFIS either, but I can tell you this: these prints are the biggest damn prints I have ever seen in my life! It's possible that the guy you're looking for is macro dactylic."

Franco handed the sheet to Grissom, who could clearly see that she wasn't kidding. The radius from outer to inner terminus (the distance from the centre of a finger to it's outer edge) was easily **twice** the size of a normal print!

"Marco...what now? What the hell are you talking about, Franco?" O' Riley wasn't an expert on technical terminology, which in fact made him and half the cops in the room.

"If you are macro dactylic it means you have abnormally long fingers, but these are unusually wide as well as long." Grissom, of course, was already on it. "The fingers are, proportionally, the same as anyone's, only much larger."

"So...if this increased size can apply to the rest of our suspect's body as well as the hands..." Sara was painting a picture in her mind. Grissom made it crystal clear.

"Then we are looking for a _very_ big person. In fact, a giant."

**Author's Note: **Perhaps the whole bankrupt mother thing was a bit much, but I felt like putting the issue to sleep. Anyway, please read and review. I need to know how I'm doing.


	6. Chapter 5: Following Leads

**Chapter 5 – Following Leads.**

**Disclaimer –** I don't own CSI, or any of it's cast, crew or characters. They are the undisputed property of Jerry Bruckheimer, apart from the cast members, who are owned by no one. There. See how professional that was? Ving Rhames, Darth Vader, and James Earl Jones aren't mine, either.

**Notes –** This chapter takes place sometime after 'Iced' and before 'Grave Danger'. I know it's a big leap, but I need to get this plot in gear. If you notice any continuity deficiencies, blame them on a one-armed man with a glass eye. His name is Fred and I don't like him. If anything's bugging you, tell me and I'll try to fix it. Thanks! (Also, I know that in Iced Ecklie said he was divorced, but him being married was essential to the plot, so bear with me.)

**Warning –** This chapter is rated 'M' for disturbing content later on. You have been warned.

Executive Assistant District Attorney Abigail Carmichael smoothed back her hair and leaned back onto her office desk. It had been roughly a week since she'd come to Las Vegas, and so far she had made considerable headway in a short space of time. She had yet to establish a reputation for herself as the tenacious prosecutor that she had been in New York, but she hoped to do so soon.

Her first trial in Las Vegas: the People vs. Conrad Ecklie, should help to do just that. He was being charged with several counts of evidence tampering and one count of assault with a deadly weapon against Gregory Sanders, CSI level 1. On a worrying side note, his wife Angela hadn't been seen for six days, and was now officially a missing person.

She was looking forward to this. The charges were backed by evidence, and her eyewitnesses, the aforementioned Greg Sanders and Captain James Brass from homicide, had been well prepared for any questions from Ecklie's attorney. In short, this should be a nice, easy prosecution, the trial lasting a week or so at most.

Yes, a nice easy trial. That would be great...

* * *

"Are you sure about this? I mean, what are we going to do, walk into this gym and say 'Hi, have you seen any large gentlemen hanging around recently?'" Catherine Willows was clearly less than happy with her shift's current plan of action.

"Okay, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Do you have a better idea?" Nick was starting to get annoyed now. Catherine had been moaning for fifteen minutes now, and it was grating on his nerves.

"Yeah. I mean, come on Cath. We know the guy's not gone to any of our gyms, cause we would definitely have spotted someone _that_ big, and from what I hear, this one caters to patrons who are big even by gym standards." Warrick, as usual, acted as the median between Nick and Catherine these days.

Catherine read the sign at the entrance. "'Lennie and Earl's gym. Members only.' Nice. Inviting."

They stepped inside, and found themselves looking at a number of gentlemen who could, together, have formed a heavyweight boxing championship. The CSI's suddenly felt as if they had shrunk by about a foot each.

A burly, bald-headed cue-ball of a man didn't so much walk as muscled his way towards them. "Hey, lightweights. This is members only, and I don't need to see you with your shirts off to know that you ain't gonna make the weigh-in. Come back when you hit 250-plus pounds."

Catherine flashed her ID. "Catherine Willows from the crime lab. This is Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes. We need to speak with some of your clients."

Baldy seemed to contemplate this for a moment. "Oh. What about?"

"Have their been any especially big dudes hanging around here recently?" Warrick ventured.

The bald man stared at them for a moment with wide eyes and an open mouth. Then he released a harsh, coughing laugh. "Are you shittin' me? Take a look around here! We got nothin' but the biggest and the best here, featherweight."

Catherine continued, undeterred. "We'll also need to take a look at your hands."

The laughter stopped abruptly. "My...my hands?" His eyes narrowed. "Look, lady, this better not be some kind of kinky thing, cause that's why I left that Lady Heather chick's place..."

Nick stepped in. "Sir, we're investigating a possible homicide. We just need to eliminate you and your clientele as suspects. Then we'll just go away."

As ever, the Southern charm and easy-going tone in Nick's voice did its job of mollifying their suspect. "Well, I guess it couldn't hurt, but you're gonna have to explain to _them,_" he thumbed over his shoulder at the numerous guys working out "why they've gotta drop what their doin'."

Cath shrugged. "Fair enough."

Five minutes later, three very disappointed CSI's confirmed that their last pair of fingerprints did not match the giant prints that Franco had handed them a few days ago. The guys in the gym, hard as it was to believe, were all too small. Their hands were big, but not big enough to be a match.

Warrick turned to the room at large (no pun intended). "Sorry to waste your time, gentlemen." The bodybuilders shuffled out, mumbling about inept cops.

Nick faced the bald man (whose name was Lennie) with a sheepish expression. "Sorry, man."

"Eh, don't worry about it. Most of these bums go off to be soldiers. Y'know, Navy Seals, Army Rangers. I figure they gotta learn to take orders sometime. I tell ya, big as some of these guys get, don't always make 'em tough enough or smart enough for the army." Lennie was in a surprisingly good mood.

"I know this sounds like a stupid question, and we've asked it before, but do you remember any guys coming in here that were big even by your standards?" Catherine asked.

Lennie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, there was this one guy...Kyle something...he got his ass banned for damaging the equipment. Listen, you need to ask Earl, that's my partner, about it. He's got a better memory than me. HEY EARL!" Lennie bellowed deafeningly across the gym.

Earl turned out to be a big, beefcake of a man who looked like Ving Rhames on steroids and sounded like James Earl Jones playing Darth Vader. "Whassup, Lennie?" he baritoned.

The criminalists quickly explained the situation, and just for the record, took his prints. Again, no match.

"Yeah, I remember that dude." Earl's mood darkened considerably. "Guy was a psycho. He sits on one of the rowing machines, sets it to max resistance, and pulls on the bars. He ripped the chain right out of the wheel. Then he just throws it across the room, nearly knocking this poor dude out..."

"Oh, yeah, Vinnie..." Lennie reminisced.

"Anyways, that's when I tell him to get his ass out of my gym, and I take his membership card back. For a second I thought the guy was just gonna deck me, then when the other dudes start taking an interest, he back off and leaves." Earl shook his head. "Real psycho."

Catherine jumped in. "Do you still have his membership card?"

"Yeah, should be in my office. You want it?"

"Please."

* * *

Meanwhile, back in the crime lab, Gil Grissom was currently doing the unthinkable. He was following a hunch.

The compliance print from Ecklie's house was still unknown, despite Franco's sincerest efforts. Grissom had a feeling he knew how to find out who the mystery print belonged to regardless. If the print didn't belong to anyone who was _currently_ within the department, it might belong to someone who _used_ to be with the department.

Grissom was therefore diligently checking personnel files for people who had worked for the crime lab within the last ten years, looking for any clue in the psych evaluations as to who a likely suspect might be, when the call came through on his cell phone. He pushed the caller ID and recognised the number as Sophia's.

He hoped she hadn't called to talk about the morning after Ecklie's arrest...

He answered with his trademark "Grissom."

"Gr-Grissom...I-I've just..."

Gil sat up, concerned. "Sophia? Are you okay? You sound weird."

"I've just found Ecklie's wife..."

* * *

Sophia Curtis had almost vomited when she'd found what was left of the _very_ late Angela Ecklie by the side of the I-15. Right now a number of beat cops were stealing Sophia's thunder whilst older, more experienced homicide detectives looked on in mute horror. Some particularly sick, sadistic bastard had really gotten a kick out of killing her...

The body hadn't just been damaged or disabled, it had been **pulverised** That really was the only way to describe it. The torso had been torn clean in two, with the exposed spinal column looking like a broken twig. Both legs had been broken in a number of places, and were bent at bizarre angles. One severed arm dangled limply from a tree branch, where it continued it's post-mortem twitching.

But worst of all was the face. Angela Ecklie's face was no longer recognisable as a human feature. It had been reduced to a bloody pulp of flesh and splintered bones. Sophia had known that it was Ecklie's wife only because her purse lay open by the body. Inside was Angela Ecklie's library card with her smiling face on the surface.

Not without difficulty, Sophia had bagged the card as evidence. Then she'd called in the 419 to Grissom. Perhaps he'd be able to deal with this more professionally. She herself just wanted to leave this gore-strewn crime scene and find the monster that had done this.

As long as someone else made the arrest...

**Author's Note: **I am so, so, SO sorry that this update has taken so long, but I've been kind of busy. I'll try to be a lot faster next time. Please forgive me? Please?


	7. Chapter 6: What a monster can do

**Chapter 6 – What a Monster can do...**

**Disclaimer –** Don't own it, never will. Except for Kyle Andrews.

**Notes – **Spoilers for 'The Accused is Entitled', 'Spark of Life' and 'Hollywood Brass', now and for later chapters. Warning for harsh language later on.

Greg squirmed uncomfortably. Once again, his hair was deprived of its natural spikiness, and smoothed down into the geeky straightedge style that the courts seemed to love so much. And, of course, he wasn't permitted to wear a casual, loose- fitting shirt, or one of his lucky pairs of Levi jeans. Hell, even a Forensics personnel jumpsuit would have done!

No, instead, he was stuck in an over-starched, itching-like-crazy formal suit, with crotch-biting, wedgie-inflicting black pants. And why did they have to be black? He was in Nevada, for crying out loud! The temperature was a constant 120 degrees, with blazing sunlight every single day, and he was stuck in black formal clothes, in a courthouse corridor with a busted air conditioner.

Greg thought longingly of the water-filled carafe at the stand. He knew if he drank now, he wouldn't stop until it was empty. He would have to wait a little longer, at least until Ms. Carmichael was in her stride, until he could quench his thirst. He tried to stop fidgeting as he remembered Sara's advice about maintaining his posture as much as he could, and keeping a cool head when being questioned.

Oh, he was looking forward to that, no question! He knew that, however uncomfortable he was here, it would be a dozen times worse on the stand being cross-examined by Ecklie's obnoxious lawyer, the insufferable Ms. Margaret Finn.

With an effort, Greg pushed these thoughts from his mind, and focused on his situation. The court was now in session, and he had been called to testify on the evidence he had gathered regarding Ecklie's corruption, and also to inform the court of what had happened in those last few desperate seconds in Ecklie's office; how the former assistant director had tried to kill him. He, Brass and Carmichael had compared notes, painstakingly practiced the answers to questions that the opposition might pose, and reviewed what evidence was admissible and which subjects could be introduced and explained to the grand jury. In short, it was more or less 'Go' time!

The doors at the back of the courthouse opened, and as Greg entered, his mouth dropped open.

Ecklie had fired Margaret Finn at the last minute and had hired Marjorie 'Sound bite' Wescott to defend him! Greg remembered the last time the CSI's had come across Wescott; the trial of Tom Haviland, the movie star with a bad temper. The ferocious and unscrupulous defence attorney had almost torn their entire case apart, and it had taken a timely intervention by Grissom to pull off a conviction.

This was going to be harder than he thought...

* * *

About sixteen miles away, near Lake Mead, Catherine Willows was thinking the exact same thing. She and her colleagues, Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown, had followed the lead from Lennie and Earl at their Uber gym, and had found the current residence of their prime suspect, Kyle Andrews. The house, out of context, would have been inviting enough, a quaint little cabin by the lakeside, half a mile from Calville Bay, tastefully decorated with vividly coloured art and potted plants. 

This place, however, was **in** context. The front door of the house was much taller and broader than most front doors were, at least those that were built for human beings. Inside the house they were finding disturbing evidence of what the current owner was all about. Most of the reading material was either gratuitously pornographic or eerily highbrow: magazines with titles such as 'Chains N' Pains' and 'Dark Side' were mixed in with Dante, Emerson and Tolstoy.

Catherine was working the outside of the house, while Nick checked upstairs and Warrick processed the ground floor. Securing the search warrant had been surprisingly easy. Apparently, Judge Anderson wanted this guy caught, and he wanted him caught now. It was only a matter of time before the murder of Angela Ecklie hit the papers, so he would have signed a warrant for them to search the Area 51 if it would lead to an arrest. It was as Nick and Warrick walked outside, respectively carrying a pistol and a twelve-gauge shotgun, that they heard it.

"**Who the hell are you?"**

The CSI swing shift, as one, spun around to face the owner of that voice. When Catherine saw who it was, she felt her adrenaline spiking as her heart pounded in her chest. They had been wrong. This guy wasn't big. He wasn't huge.

He was gigantic. Kyle Andrews stood before them in all his titanic glory, a living mountain of muscle and bone with a red hillbilly beard and arms the size of oak trunks.

Warrick felt his blood freezing in his veins as his bowels turned to water. This guy was seven feet if he was an inch, and he towered over the, until recently, large CSI. Nick, meanwhile, was trying to focus on Detectives Vega, Cavaliere, and O'Riley. Trying to focus on the fact that they all had guns, and were all decent shots. He was NOT trying to focus on how easily this guy could snap him in two like a dry twig, how he could grab Nick's head and twist it off his neck like he was opening a water bottle.

The human colossus smiled through his beard. "I can tell what you're all thinking. **Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum**, right?"

Visibly gathering her courage, Catherine spoke up. "Mr. Kyle Andrews? We're from the crime lab. My name is..."

"I know what your name is." Though Kyle's voice had decreased in volume, the menace and venom it carried was loud and clear. "It's Catherine Willows, isn't it? And these two scrawny little shits must be Stokes and Brownie."

Catherine's shock must have shown on her face, because Kyle grinned wickedly, revealing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth, and elaborated. "Your surprise is charming to see. I remember you, Willows. You're Eddie's scrap of flesh, aren't you? Only you're too old now. And you've been passed around once too often."

Scrap of Flesh? What in the hell did THAT mean? Despite her fear, Catherine felt anger rising in her gut, and not without effort, suppressed it. Warrick rumbled low in his throat, and despite his advantage in size, Kyle looked sufficiently impressed.

"So, you have a knight in shining armour, my pretty little princess? I never figured you for a boy scout, Brownie. I always thought it would be the Redneck over there who sprang into action to save the day."

But Nick was staring oddly at Kyle Andrews' pickup truck. He didn't seem to react to the big man's words towards himself or his colleagues. Nick reached for his forensics kit on the ground.

"**Hey!** Texas! I'm talking to you, _boy_!" Kyle stepped towards him, and the earth seemed to groan under his weight.

The instant Kyle Andrews moved, all three detectives had their guns up and trained on him. Kyle fell back, laughing to himself. "Jumpy, are we? Well, fatboy" (he directed this at O'Riley) "I hope your aim's improved over the years."

"Just keep 'em where we can see, 'em, Andrews." Vega hissed between clenched teeth. Nick advanced past the giant figure towards his truck, kit in hand. He opened the driver's side door and smelled it instantly. Bleach. Mr. Andrews had just cleaned his car. No prizes for guessing why.

Nick reached for the Luminol...

* * *

Sophia Curtis arrived back at the lab to find Grissom hunched over a desk, one hand pressed to his face. She walked over to him, concerned. "Hey. You okay?" 

Grissom turned to her with a tired smile. "Are you?"

Sophia's expression clouded at the memory of that horrific crime scene. She would have trouble sleeping tonight, that was for damn sure. She thought back to a few weeks ago, when Greg had gone to the hospital to process the burn victim. She had been charred, paralysed, crippled forever, but alive. If you could call that alive...

Greg had carried the weight of that case around with him for a long time. He had asked Sophia how you could get over an image like that. Back then the advice she had given had seemed so simple, so easy to follow. She had enjoyed being the shoulder for Greg to lean on, even if it was just for a little while.

Now she had some idea of how Greg had felt. And how useless her advice must have sounded. Shaking away the memory, she focused on Grissom. "Not really. How in the hell somebody could do that...just...rip another person to pieces...What about our mystery print? Any luck yet?"

Grissom sighed. "Yeah. The bad kind. I studied the case files of retired CSI's and cops for hours and hours and hours, and I suddenly realised whose print it was, or might be..."

Sophia's eyes widened, her own problems forgotten. "Who?"

"I don't...I can't just throw out an accusation. I don't have any proof. I'm...I'm following a hunch."

Sophia's eyes widened some more. "_You?_ A hunch? Someone call Guinness."

Grissom didn't smile. "If it is who I think it is...I don't know what to think..."

Sophia bit her lip. She'd wanted to talk about something else as well, but this clearly wasn't the time. Grissom was really bothered by this, and she needed to sleep anyway. That crime scene had exhausted her, emotionally if not physically.

She left Grissom's office and headed for the break room...

* * *

Nick had finished spraying the back seat with Luminol, and was not at all surprised at the result. Blood. Lots and lots of blood. More blood than had any right to be anywhere other than inside a human body. For the blood was indeed human. 

The lantern-jawed criminalist turned with some trepidation to the nearby vast form of Kyle Andrews, who was still under the guns of the trio of homicide detectives. "You wanna explain how this much blood ended up inside your car, sir?"

"Sir! Always Sir!" Kyle chuckled good-naturedly. "Why don't you just do as you'd obviously like to and call me 'Asshole'? And no, I don't want to explain it. You don't look like it, but you've got brains. Use them."

Warrick joined the conversation. "You can tell us here or at the station. Your choice."

Kyle turned to Warrick, and spoke with just as much good humour as he had to Nick. "And how are you going to do that without getting your skull crushed?"

From the tone of his voice he might well have been telling a nonchalant joke. Vega, apparently deciding to take offence at this last remark, stepped up with handcuffs. And stopped. He looked at size of the handcuffs. Looked at the width of Kyle Andrews' wrists. And came to the logical conclusion.

"Now you can see the problem, can't you?" Kyle's face was the picture of mirth. "How are you going to arrest me without handcuffs?"

In answer, O'Riley hoisted his gun "With this, maybe?"

Kyle snorted. "You're going to hold a gun to my head throughout the entire trip?"

O'Riley didn't move. "Well, look at it this way, even I am not going to miss from inside a car." Then with a small grin, "Like you said, my aim's improved."

Kyle's expression didn't change as far as his mouth went, but something unpleasant glittered in his eyes. "You're only looking at one part of the puzzle, detective. Do you think I'm going to fit inside _that_?" he gestured to the squad car they'd arrived in. "Even if I could get inside, it would never support my weight."

Cavaliere threw his oar in. "Your car would."

"And you can't drive it." Kyle declared. "Your feet wouldn't reach the pedals. Only I can drive my car. So," and here his eyes gleamed evilly "Who am I going to chauffeur back to the station?"

At that moment, Warrick's fear of the man before him almost doubled. He knew that the pickup truck was a two-seater, so only one of them could ride with this behemoth. It didn't take Gil Grissom or any of his philosopher pals to work out that if one of the cops or CSI's took a ride with Kyle Andrews, even with a gun constantly to his head, that person would not leave the vehicle alive.

Warrick's blood ran cold. It was one of the worst kinds of suspect. Someone who was both enormously strong and fundamentally cunning. Kyle's eyes swept the group before him. "Who wants to take a ride, then? How about you, Cowboy? Feel like riding off into the sunset with me?" Nick took a step backwards, his thoughts obviously running parallel to Warrick's.

"What about you, redhead? Plenty of room for you if you sit on my lap." He shot a feral grin at Catherine, who didn't flinch. She just reached for her cell phone, and dialled.

"Hey, Jimmy? Yeah, it's Catherine. Look, I know it's been a while, but I need a favour...Great! I'm a half-mile west of Calville Bay. How long...? You're almost here now? Perfect! Okay, see you in a minute." She hung up.

Kyle looked bemused. "What did you just do?"

Catherine smiled. "Wait and see, Mr. Andrews."

They waited for about a minute, during which time Warrick had the presence of mind to ask, or rather, demand, to be able to take Kyle's fingerprints. Warrick compared them to the giant ones taken from Ecklie's house, and got a visual match. This guy was in on it.

After a minute, their wait was over. A huge car-transporter, looking vastly out of place on such a tiny access road, crested the hill in front of them. Catherine gestured to the massive lorry. "Mr. Andrews. Your limousine awaits."

Kyle wasn't smiling when he turned to Cath. "So, my car gets transported while I'm inside it? The rest of you do the same, and if I move, they open fire?" He nodded to the three detectives, who were now grinning in relief. "Very clever."

Cath nodded. "Shall we?"

Kyle complied, ignoring the look of sheer horror that passed across Jimmy the driver's face. "What a procession we are going to make..."

**Author's Note**: I mean to make Kyle Andrews one of the story's main badasses, so if I'm not making him menacing or vicious, let me know. I welcome positive or negative input.


	8. Chapter 7: We Have a Problem

**Chapter 7 – We Have a Problem...**

**Disclaimer –** Don't own it, apart from Kyle Andrews.

**Notes – **Spoilers from 'Committed', and 'The Accused is Entitled.' I cannot **believe** I have taken this long to update! I didn't think anybody was reading this story anymore. Please forgive me?

The entrance of Kyle Andrews into the Las Vegas police department became the stuff of legend. Imagine if you will, a car-transporter pulling up right outside the station, almost blocking the road as it does so. Three detectives exit the vehicle, guns drawn and safeties off. They all converge around a single car that is mounted on the truck's gigantic back.

From out of this car steps a man. This man is easily seven and a half feet tall if he's an inch. He is big, bearded, heavily muscled, and he has a vicious smile on his face. The kind of smile that says, "If you mess around with me, I will damage you. I will do things to you that are irreparable, things that you will not recover from if you lived to be a hundred." Which gives you some idea of just how expressive this smile can be.

The three (very apprehensive) detectives, all holding their guns on this man, are followed by three CSI's. Two of them are men, one black and one white. Both would look large and in charge under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances, and next to this man their physical presence is entirely overshadowed. They are fully aware of this, and continue to shoot sideways glances at the (much) larger gentleman.

The third CSI is a woman. She is petite, redheaded and looks like a matchstick next to the awesome bulk of this man. She does not join her beweaponed colleagues, but instead goes to the driver of the transporter and enters into what appears to be a very apologetic speech. We can assume that she is explaining to Jimmy (for so he is named) her reasons for not telling him that they were going to be transporting a car containing a **very** large and **very** angry murder suspect. Jimmy makes some **very** unflattering hand signals, climbs into the massive vehicle's cab, and pulls away, leaving his redheaded companion looking somewhat remorseful.

Meanwhile, our attention is drawn inexorably back to the main event of the hour: namely the fifteen to twenty armed beat cops who move to surround the walking behemoth that is Kyle Andrews. He looks vaguely amused at this display, and we see now that his hands are not cuffed. We guess correctly that this is because the rings of the cuffs would not fit upon his enormous wrists.

However, preparations for Mr. Andrews' arrival have clearly been made in more ways than one, as one officer (looking for all the world as though he has just been ordered to jump off a cliff) approaches Kyle with a length of steel rope. Kyle's easy smile vanishes and we clearly hear the sound of guns being cocked. Resignedly, the big man holds out his hands.

After the simple process of restraining him is complete, the uniformed officers begin to disperse, and the three detectives, looking somewhat more confident, march their huge charge into the station, followed by the three scientists.

As the procession makes it's way towards a holding cell, we cannot help but notice the air of awe and fear that follows it throughout the crime lab, due entirely to their vast visitor. Judy the Receptionist, for example, shakes like a leaf as they pass. Other crime lab personnel are affected in a similar manner: Hodges makes a concerted effort to become invisible, Jaqui Franco stares in slack-jawed amazement and whips her head away like lightning when Kyle notices her observations.

Gilbert Grissom, emerging from one of the evidence labs directly in Mr. Andrews' path, promptly backs up until his butt hits the door he just opened. Mia Dickerson is composed enough, until Kyle, without warning, lets off a series of half-yelps, half-barks that have the intended effect of making her climb the nearest wall. The big man expresses his considerable sadistic amusement at this. Sara Sidle is unpleasantly reminded of the esteemed gentlemen in Desert State Mental Hospital. She has seen the look in Kyle Andrews' eyes before...

Sophia Curtis observes all from the safety of a nearby lab with wide, frightened eyes. Here indeed is the monster that ripped Angela Ecklie to pieces as she begged for mercy. She doesn't have the evidence yet, but CSI or no CSI, she feels it in her soul that this is the killer. And she is more terrified now than she has ever been in her life. She even knows what weapons the killer used. They are currently bound by a length of steel industrial wire.

As Kyle Andrews is led into the nearest interrogation room, Grissom looks after him for a moment, wondering if Catherine, Nick and Warrick know what they've gotten themselves into here...

* * *

"No more questions, your Honour." Marjorie Wescott returned to her seat at the defence table next to her client, the insufferable Conrad Ecklie.

Greg blinked. Was that it? She was done? He had heard the courtroom legends about Marjorie Wescott from his fellow CSI's, particularly Sara and Grissom, whose memories of their last encounter with the shark-like defence lawyer were most unpleasant. He had expected much worse from her, yet all that she had asked of him was that he repeat a few of the final points of his investigation, such as how Brass had aided, and what weapon Ecklie had attacked with.

Greg had answered all of her questions and shrugged off a few cheap shots she had thrown in about his lack of experience. He had at least expected a challenge from her. Still, if she said she was done, there was little else Greg could say. Feeling very much as though he had just missed something crucial, he stepped down from the stand and left the courtroom.

In the courtroom corridor he passed Captain Brass, patiently waiting for his turn to testify. Greg informed him that it was his turn, and waited. Brass didn't move. Greg, after a moment, repeated himself loudly. Brass jumped out of the seat as if he had been shocked, then, excusing himself to a confused Greg, marched somewhat stiffly towards the courtroom.

Brass, sweating like a pig in a sauna, stepped up to the stand, dreading what he was about to do. He went through the legal motions of the Oath and stating his name and badge number for the record, and responded to Abbie Carmichael's questioning in much the same way that a robot would.

Then the dreaded moment came. Abbie Carmichael said "Your Witness." And Marjorie Wescott stood up, barely restraining a predatory smile from touching her lips as she forced her eyes to become cold, dead orbs. She moved in for the kill.

"Captain Brass, did Conrad Ecklie attack Gregory Sanders at any time with a knife?"

"No, he did not."

A murmur of astonishment rippled across the courtroom. As the Judge tapped his gavel and called gently for order, Wescott could no longer keep the smile from forming on her face.

"Did he attack Greg Sanders at any time with **any** weapon?"

"No, he did not."

Brass didn't say this last as much as he sighed it. Stealing a glance upwards, he saw the expression on Abbie Carmichael's face (the one that said 'What in the fuck are you DOING to me!') and promptly decided that his feet presented a better view.

"No further questions, your Honour."

* * *

"What the hell just happened in there, Brass?" Carmichael raged as soon as the session was adjourned. "Ecklie attacked Greg with a knife and you just said he didn't! Not only has this torpedoed our case, but it looks like Greg just perjured himself!"

A confused Greg turned into a panic-stricken Greg as the two law enforcers walked past him without realising that he was listening. The words 'Torpedoed' and 'Perjured' stood out in particular like bright red lights. What the hell was going to happen to his career now?

"Shut up and listen!" Brass' voice broke slightly, instantly capturing the attention of his two companions. "I had to say what I said in there! They didn't give me a choice!"

Abbie felt a cold pellet of fear settle in her gut. "Who didn't?"

"The bastards who have my daughter."

Greg felt as though someone had slapped his forehead and kicked him in the guts. Abbie's eyes widened in sympathy as Brass handed her a photo. She took it, looked at it, and dropped it like it was a biting snake. She held a hand to her forehead and whispered "Bastards...bastards..."

Greg looked at the photo and wished he hadn't. Brass, meanwhile was barely holding himself together. Greg offered a supporting hand as Brass collapsed into broken sobs.

And wondered what the hell they were going to do now...


	9. Chapter 8: The Monster's Cage

**Chapter 8 – The Monster's Cage.**

**Disclaimer – **If anyone wishes to sue me, they will find that I own my clothes, and a laptop. That's it. Seriously, Mr. Bruckheimer, Mr. Petersen, you'd pay more for the legal fees than what you'd make from the settlement. Please don't bother.

**Notes – **Spoilers ahoy for all seasons! After this chapter I will require reviews. I can't write another word until I know that I'm moving in the right direction. (I have a massive insecurity problem. The only cure is reviews, good, bad, praise, flames, whatever.)

Looking through the interrogation room's two-way mirror, Sara Sidle could observe quite a few things. One of those things was that Kyle Andrews was big. Very big. The epitome of bigness. As if she hadn't already noticed this in the crime lab corridor.

Another thing was that, unlike many of the Las Vegas police department's other suspects, Kyle Andrews was standing in the far corner of the room, rather than sitting in a chair at the steel table. It didn't take her long to figure out that that was because the chairs that they had wouldn't support his weight.

The last thing was that Kyle Andrews was standing underneath the higher windows in the room, with the afternoon sunlight falling down in front of him, as his face was shrouded in darkness by the shade. All of these things combined to reverse the intended effect of the interrogation room, making the cops and CSI's feel more intimidated than the suspect.

Sighing gently, Sara focused on the conversation taking place inside the room. Catherine Willows was asking if Mr. Andrews had ever heard of a Conrad Ecklie.

"Of course I have. If you're even remotely competent you'll have found my prints all over his house. I'm just surprised it took you this long to find it out."

Catherine hadn't expected the suspect to admit knowing Ecklie, but she was not fazed. "Care to tell us what your relationship was with Conrad Ecklie?"

"Certainly. He's a friend of a friend of mine. We met once, at his house, to discuss business, and I've seen him around Vegas occasionally."

"You said 'A friend of a friend.' Who's your other friend?" Warrick chipped in.

"That would be the other person whose prints you found at Ecklie's house. The ones you're having so much trouble with on that little AFIS toy of yours." Andrews smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. "Asking me for his identity is, naturally, a waste of time."

But that wasn't what Catherine had picked up on. "How do you know about our problems with AFIS?"

"Because you've just admitted it. Next question." Kyle Andrews relaxed against the wall. Was it Sara's imagination, or did it groan slightly?

Catherine, meanwhile, was losing her patience. This guy knew what was going on inside the lab, and he wasn't telling her everything. How could he possibly have known about the Compliance print? He had to have an inside source. That must be who the print belonged to. But who was the source?

"Fine." snapped Nick. "What kind of business were you and Ecklie discussing?"

"No business that's any of your business, my corn-on-the-cob chewing friend."

Nick snarled. This guy was really starting to piss him off. Just before he could comment on Kyle's hillbilly beard and mention a pot and a kettle, the door opened and Margaret Finn, the world's most lovable public defender, glided inside.

"This conversation stops now, and any further questions can be directed to my cell phone. My client and I are leaving now, detectives." Clearly she was feeling especially cuddly today.

"I don't recall asking for a lawyer." Kyle Andrews growled, all charm and grace gone in an instant.

Margaret faltered. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. Her client was supposed to smile (gratefully at her, smugly at the police), and she was meant to bring the interrogation to an abrupt end. She couldn't have heard correctly.

"Mr. Andrews, I am to represent you as legal..."

"Get. Out." Kyle stood up, speaking in a flat, cold voice that Nick was privately grateful not to have directed at him. Margaret Finn promptly decided on discretion as the better part of valour, leaving the interrogation room as quickly as humanly possible.

Catherine, having allowed this latest development to fully register, spoke up. "Mr. Andrews, I think accepting legal council is the smartest move you can make right n..."

"When I want your opinion, _stripper,_ I'll be sure to give you one and make you recite it word for fucking word!" Andrews was snarling now, all composure gone.

"HEY!" Warrick had had enough. "Can we get on with this? And do it in a way that at least approaches civilised?"

The giant man backed down slightly, and seemed to cool off. "Excellent idea. From now on, I will talk to you one-to-one, and I will try not to make this more unpleasant than it needs to be."

Warrick allowed a tiny part of himself to relax. All right. Now they were getting somewhere. He spoke with deliberate calm, forcing himself to be patient. "Okay. Now, why did you just turn down Ms. Finn's assistance?"

"Because I have nothing but absolute contempt for defence lawyers. That slut is not worthy to be in the same room as me, therefore I demanded her to vacate it."

Kyle was speaking in the same calm tone as Warrick, but it carried an undercurrent of contained rage that chilled the veteran CSI to his core. This was great. Not only was this guy their most likely suspect for a brutal killing (and possibly not his only one), but now it also looked like he had a superiority complex and was a psychopath besides.

"How about Ecklie's wife, Angela? You have a problem with her, too? You think she might not be worthy to be in your presence either?" Warrick knew that taunting might be counterproductive, but couldn't resist getting a shot in.

Rather than flare up again, the big man smiled easily. "Angela. Yes, we had our...disagreements. You might be more concerned about another woman that you in particular, I believe, were acquainted with, Brownie."

Warrick's eyes narrowed. ""What the hell does _that _mean?

Andrews looked momentarily confused. But only momentarily. "You don't know yet? Wait, the time's 5.30...Ahhh." and here his face brightened with vicious pleasure. "You wouldn't know yet. You'll see. And I think you'll be..."

"Cut the crap, pal, and drop the cute hints." Nick was losing his temper. "What are you talking ab..."

"**DO NOT INTERRUPT ME EVER AGAIN, REDNECK!"** Kyle roared at the top of his considerable voice. Every person in the room associated with law enforcement (including Sara behind the mirror) jumped back like they had been zapped with a cattle prod. As the echoes died down, and Nick tried to stop himself shaking _too_ visibly, a casual observer would have noted the fact that the usual hubbub of the crime lab had stopped.

When Kyle spoke up, it was in the same mock-gentle tone he had been using with Warrick. "As I was saying, you will see, very shortly. And I think you'll be unpleasantly surprised. Until then, let's reminisce about old times."

He turned, slowly, to Catherine. "How is Eddie these days, Cath? I hear you and he have had a little girl. What's her name again? Lindsey?"

Catherine spoke in a voice specifically designed to castrate. "This is the second time you have mentioned Eddie. Now either tell me how you knew him or I will charge you with kidnapping and murder."

Despite his giant size, Kyle looked troubled for the briefest moment. Then the calm mask fell across his features again. "A while ago, back in the days when I was only **six** foot five, I noticed that quite a few native Vegas folk had developed an unfortunate predilection for cocaine. Edward Willows was one of those people. I occasionally got a hold of some of the white stuff and distributed it for a moderate fee. Towards the end of our relationship Eddie became...especially dependant on me. He mentioned how his wife, Catherine, kept on bitching endlessly at him about it. By then, of course, all he cared about was where the next fix came from. How is he?"

It took all of Catherine's (and Warrick's) self control not to ram her fist into his bearded face. Instead, she said, slowly and deliberately "My husband was killed two years ago."

The calm look was gone instantly, replaced by one of deep regret. "Killed?" The giant man actually looked _distressed_ by this revelation. "I...I didn't know. I am genuinely sorry for your loss. He was a good friend, even if Ionlyknew himthrough the needle." Kyle paused, then added "Do you know how he died?"

Catherine's eyes flashed. "That's none of your concern! All I know is I'm looking at the scumbag who hooked my husband on crack, and probably countless others as well. I don't want your pity. All I want from you right now is an explanation of why we found Angela Ecklie's blood in the back of your truck."

Kyle Andrews no longer looked regretful or commiserating. He looked pissed, and incredibly, _hurt_. "Your wish is my command, Supervisor Willows. Consider my sympathy withdrawn. As for the blood, you're a CSI, you figure it out." He sounded surprisingly petulant, like a child who'd just had his hand slapped out of the cookie jar.

"Okay." This was Nick, who had gathered himself enough to speak again. "You kidnapped Angela Ecklie, drove her out to the middle of the desert and killed her. And the coroner's report is going to prove it. Now what besides your attitude is standing between you and a lethal injection?"

Kyle recovered in a flash, as he saw something through the interrogation room window, the one that provided a view into the corridor beyond. "You're about to find out..."

And that was when the living vision of paternal anger thundered into the tiny room, slammed an unresisting Kyle Andrews against the far wall and screamed into his face "WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER, YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH!"

The vision in question went by the popular name of James Richard Brass. Behind him were Greg Sanders, who didn't look quite as livid as Brass, but it was damn close. Sadly, Brass didn't seem too interested in getting an answer to his question, because he pulled his gun and pressed it tightly to Kyle's head. The big man himself, meanwhile, was icicle cold.

"Kill me and you'll never know."

Slowly, Brass saw the common wisdom in the giant's answer and removed the gun. Behind the window, Sara observed the looks of horrified comprehension and desperate sympathy leaking onto her colleagues' faces. She was suddenly very glad that the mirror was two-way, and that she couldn't see her own expression.

"Where is she?" Brass's voice was calmer now, but still with enough steel behind it to stock a scrap yard.

"She's with my friend, the mysterious dude that you're trying so hard to find." Andrews' grin was the most horrible thing Brass had ever seen in his life. "Did you do as we asked?"

Brass seemed to grow smaller with defeat and despair. "Yes."

"And here I was thinking conspiracy theories weren't the rage anymore." This was from Greg, and there was no humour in his voice. For him, seeing the man who had saved his life become so humble was a like a hole in his guts. Brass was a good man. He had been there right at the moment that Greg had needed him. He had stopped Ecklie from killing him.

This was torture. No man deserved this, least of all Brass.

"If you've torpedoed the case against Ecklie, all you have to do now is finish the job by letting me go. If I get to a certain pay phone within" he checked the clock again "one hour, then you'll get her back. Otherwise she's gone forever."

Throughout this casually vicious pronouncement, Kyle Andrews didn't raise his voice one decibel. Catherine spoke up. "What assurance do we have that you'll keep you word?"

"None. This is my offer. Take it or leave it." Not a trace of human emotion. "In case you're wondering, Brownie, this is what I meant by 'someone you were acquainted with.'"

"What happens after that?" Warrick was growling the words out.

"That's up to the mysterious dude." Kyle grinned teasingly.

"You mean Philip Gerard?"

Kyle's grin died.

Dr. Gilbert Grissom had entered the interrogation room utterly unnoticed. It was his voice that had made that last announcement. But it was almost unrecognisable to Sara, who watched from behind the glass. Normally, Grissom's voice was calm, considerate, sometimes flat and emotionless. Now, every syllable was dripping with rage and pain. And as Sara put a face to the name Philip Gerard, she knew why.

Grissom, meanwhile, was not done talking. "I guess I'll never know how you, or maybe he, managed to delete his fingerprint record from AFIS, but it certainly explains why the prints themselves came up Compliance, as Gerard used to work in this very lab, before he retired. And we wasted all that time thinking it was somebody that was still here, when all the time it was my, and Ecklie's, old mentor." Grissom's voice was thick with fury.

His wasn't the only one. "Clever boy, Grissom." Kyle rumbled menacingly. "You know who it is. Big deal. The offer stands. What's it going to be? The girl, or an arrest?"

Kyle leaned forward until his face filed Grissom's vision. His eyes were two empty pits.

"Your call, **_Doctor."_**

**AN:** Like I said at the top, I need just a couple more reviews to know that I am going in the right direction. Any reviews, praise, flames whatever, are welcome. I would prefer constructive criticism, though.

PS: wdbydoglvr and kegel, please, please, please forgive me for taking so damn long. University stuff is getting in the way.


	10. Chapter 9: Archie's Last Try

**Chapter 9 – Archie's Last Try**

**Disclaimer – **Don't own it, never will. Spoilers coming from all over the damn series now.

**Notes – **At this point it is important to remind you that Ellie Rebecca Brass has crossed the CSI team's path twice now (and Warrick in particular). Neither of the encounters ('Ellie' and 'Hollywood Brass') have left Brass Snr. with pleasant memories of his once-little girl, but he is still trying to make it work.

_The interrogation room. Time: 5.40 pm._

"Clever boy, Grissom." Kyle rumbled menacingly. "You know who it is. Big deal. The offer stands. What's it going to be? The girl, or an arrest?" Kyle leaned forward until his face filed Grissom's vision. His eyes were two empty pits.

"Your call, **_Doctor."_**

Grissom didn't flinch. "Go to hell."

Kyle stepped back, stunned rigid. He wasn't the only one. Brass looked like Grissom had just kicked him in the guts, and Greg was glaring disgustedly at him. Only Catherine was unmoved. She focused on Grissom with expectation rather than surprise. She knew that his mind was going at light speed.

Kyle Andrews regained his composure. His face was now as devoid of expression as his eyes were of emotion. "Then she's dead."

Grissom turned on his heel and left the room. With the exception of the officers on guard, all followed him.

* * *

"**What the hell are you DOING, Grissom!"** Brass raged as the team raced down the corridor after their leader. "My daughter is in the hands of that fucking lunatic and he's gonna kill her and you just..." 

"Brass, listen to me." Grissom spun around to face him. "Gerard is going to kill her anyway. The only way we can get your daughter back is by finding her first. You're a captain, and it's your daughter, so you outrank me. It's your decision. We can play by this bastard's rules and hope he's on the line, or we can try what I have planned, and get her back. Please Jim, trust me."

Brass looked into Grissom's imploring features, and realised something amazing. He did trust Grissom. He genuinely trusted him.

"You better know what you're doing."

Grissom smiled with sheer determination. "We're about to find out." He turned back to face his team. Catherine was pumped and psyched and ready to do whatever it took to find Ellie. Nick looked both worried and expectant, while Warrick coolly awaited orders. Sara looked stunned into disbelief by this sudden turn of events, and Greg... Grissom almost winced. He wished that Greg would stop looking at him with that combination of amazement and disgust. It wasn't an easy expression to meet.

Pulling himself together, Grissom formed up his battle plan. "Greg, Sara, Brass, come with me to the AV lab. Archie's the only one who can help us out here. Warrick, Nick, you guys go through Kyle Andrew's personal effects, see if there's anything there that can help us find Ellie. Catherine, do whatever you have to do to find out which phone that bastard was planning on calling Phillip Gerard from. You're the only one who can do this, Cath." he raised his voice over her spluttered protests. "I know there are thousands of pay phones in Vegas, and that this won't be easy, but you have something that I don't have: intuition."

For the briefest of seconds, Catherine was stunned into non-motion. Grissom, _Gilbert_ Grissom, was **praising** her intuition rather than condemning it? Now she knew the world had gone crazy! Still, this might be the only time in her life that Grissom trusted her instinct rather than her mind and she was determined not to let him down. "I'll find it, Gil" she replied quietly.

But Grissom and the team were already moving off.

Catherine stood there for one more second, a tiny smile playing on her lips. Then she spoke in a voice only she could hear. "We're back."

* * *

"I cannot believe you guys! This is the second time in as many months that you have asked me to do the impossible! How the hell am I going to manage this in an hour!" roared Archie even as he moved to accomplish the task that Grissom had set for him. 

Greg felt a certain sense of déjà vu. Once again, he was in the AV lab, once again Archie was raving about an impossible task, and once again, he was already prepared to at least try it. Only this time, it was Grissom asking Archie for the favour. Greg was just watching.

And it was brilliant! He had been wrong about Grissom a few seconds ago, he knew that now. If they could do this correctly, then they might just stand a chance of rescuing Ellie. But ONLY if they could do this correctly, as in _perfectly_. And, Greg had to admit, asking Archie to do something like this inside one hour might just be pushing it!

"Archie," Grissom began. "I'm not asking you to do something like this on a whim, you must know that. More than one life is riding on this. Down there in one of those cells below the station is a creature that is capable of tearing out limbs and crushing skulls with his bare hands. If this doesn't work, Brass will let him loose to get his daughter back."

No more needed be said. Archie plunged back into his work, emitting several colourful epithets against bug-obsessed supervisors and insane plans along the way. He, too, had seen Kyle Andrews enter the station, and was not keen on having a beast like that free in Las Vegas…

* * *

Meanwhile, Warrick and Nick were busily searching the possessions of said Kyle Andrews. So far they had found two rolls of twenties, one dirty magazine, and a switchblade that wasn't a switchblade as much as it was a ten-inch meat cleaver. Nick was starting to wonder if, despite size being such a big part of Kyle's life, he wasn't compensating for something. 

Warrick spoke up. "Hey, man, you got any idea what Grissom's planning?"

"Er…"

"Yeah, I know, stupid question, does anyone ever know what Grissom's planning, but still, it's gotta make you curious, you know?"

"Yeah, I…"

"I mean, how is Grissom planning on rescuing Ellie Brass (who, I can tell you right now, is not the easiest person in the world to rescue, girl's got a death wish or something), inside" he checked his watch, "fifty minutes and counting?"

"I guess he…"

"Maybe it's gonna be a phone tap or something. Nah, nah, forget that, Gerard'll have worked that out way in advance, and anyway, they don't even know which phone they need to tap yet!"

"Well…"

Warrick knocked over an object that clattered to the floor, taking some paper with it. "Dammit! Nick, can you turn down the chatter? I'm trying to work here!"

Nick clenched his teeth and his fists and slowly began a mental ten-count. This was going to be a long hour…

* * *

Catherine was in 'the zone'. Not that she know precisely what 'the zone' was, only that it was a nice, friendly place to be that would tell you the answers to difficult questions, like which one of almost two thousand pay phones would be the one the CSI's wanted. 

Right now, 'the zone' was telling her that the pay phone would have to be in a location fairly close to the crime lab, as Kyle had kept checking the clock inside the interrogation room. Catherine guessed that he had been trying to work out how long it would take him to walk or drive there.

'The zone' promptly went one further and told her that the pay phone might be inside a building. That would make it much more difficult for the police to set up surveillance, and it would provide privacy from nosy bystanders.

That still left almost 359 pay phones as potential call points! At this point, 'the zone' remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere, and vanished. Catherine racked her brains, trying desperately to think of something, anything, that might lead her to the kidnapper.

Then it came. Catherine realised that Kyle Andrews had known her late but not at all lamented ex-husband, Eddie. More, they had dealt in drugs on a regular basis. That meant a place that both parties could have met up at, and safely snorted to their heart's content.

Well. That narrowed the field slightly. In a town like Vegas, drugs were in no short supply, but you couldn't just deal it anywhere you wanted. That was it, then. The pay phone was in a place that Eddie would have felt relatively safe in, and would have been private enough for drugs. She headed for the records department. The police might **know** that a number of buildings were the haunts of druggies and dope dealers, but they might not have hard evidence of the fact.

Painfully aware of just how tenuous a lead this was, Catherine checked her watch. Forty minutes left. Oh shit.

* * *

"It's. Me." A pause. Then… "DO NOT! Kill. Her." 

"Not clean enough yet, Arch. We've got to get this perfect…"

"Will you shut up and let me work! This isn't easy!"

Sara rubbed her forehead, frustration pounding a vicious rhythm on her skull. They only had about 35 minutes left, and they still had a hell of a way to go. Grissom's plan, in essence, was to form a fake message to Phillip Gerard, which they would then play through the phone (wherever the hell THAT was!), in the hopes of buying themselves some time. Of course, Gerard would only listen to a call from Kyle Andrews. Or, at least, one that _sounded_ like it was from Kyle Andrews…

Which is why they (they being Archie and a thoroughly unhelpful Greg) were currently piecing together extracts from the audiotape that had recorded Kyle Andrews' interrogation. So far they had come up with this much:

"It's. Me. Don't Kill. Her. Yet. DO NOT! Kill. Her. yet. Don't let. Her. Go. I will talk. Later."

Which was, in essence, all they really needed, but played as it was it sounded like a robot or Grissom on one of his more emotional days was speaking, and that wouldn't fool Gerard. They needed to get the message to sound as if Kyle was actually talking. And they had about half an hour, maybe less, to do just that.

How in the world Archie was managing to clean up the audio track even as these thoughts went through Sara's head was something that she would probably never know. The Asian kid was just as fast with audio-visual equipment as Greg had once been with DNA, or as Franco still was with fingerprints.

Sara checked her watch again. God, thirty minutes! They were running out of time…

* * *

Catherine was frantic by now, searching desperately through old Narcotics division records. So far, she had only found records of drug hideouts where the DEA or the local drug squad had made what they referred to as a righteous bust. Not one mention of a building that had been investigated or raided, but had not yielded results. 

Just when Cath was beginning to think that these cops only made records of the _good_ jobs they had done, she found it. 'Mead View Apartments. Investigated 21/06/98'

Mead View Apartments. That name rang a bell somewhere in the depths of her brain. "Investigated 21/06/98…" 1998 had been the year that she and Eddie had officially separated, after he'd cheated on her with that bimbo Melanie. Not that she still held any residual resentment towards the little slut, perish the thought…

"THAT'S IT!" she suddenly yelled. Mead View Apartments was where Melanie had lived in 1998. Of _course_ that's where Eddie would feel safe! And if Kyle Andrews had been a part of Melanie's life as well, then…

Grabbing the file, Catherine made a beeline for Grissom's office. Twenty minutes left. This had better be right.

* * *

Grissom held the completed and enhanced audio message in his hand. He'd heard it through once already, and it didn't sound perfect, but time was of the essence, and to be realistic, they weren't going to get it much cleaner. 

Warrick and Nick rushed up together, looking downcast and angry. Grissom, ever the optimist, spoke up. "Tell me you guys found something."

"Nothing except a name on some scrap paper in his pocket, Melanie…"

"That's it? Melanie? No last name?"

"Not a damn thing." Nick was clearly pissed. To say that the name Melanie by itself was not much of a lead to go on was an understatement. So why had Catherine, who had just arrived, just punched the air in triumph?

"Yes! Grissom, I know where the phone is." Oh. So that was why.

"Mead View Apartments. It's a fifteen-minute drive. How much time left?

"Fifteen minutes."

"Shit!"

* * *

Twelve minutes (and two almost-crashes) later, Grissom and his team arrived at Mead View Apartments. Catherine vaulted 'Dukes of Hazard' fashion out of her Denali, and led the CSI's into the dilapidated old building. 

"Melanie's apartment is on the 5th floor. Forget it, Warrick, that lift's never worked."

"Ah, son of a bitch!" Warrick was once more given cause to regret not buying a Stairmaster.

"Wait a minute." Grissom's eyes narrowed. "How the hell do you know that, Cath?"

"Because…I know stuff?" Cath gave Grissom what she hoped was a winning smile. It lost.

"Who is Melanie and how do you know her?"

"Fine!" Catherine rounded on Grissom. "Melanie is the woman that cost me my marriage, and she and Eddie also used to snort coke together. Happy?"

Grissom was far from happy. "You knew Eddie was taking drugs and you didn't tell me!"

"Oh that's rich! If you'd told me he was having an affair in the first place…"

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" yelled Sara. "We have got, like, one minute, and you guys are talking about Eddie! LET'S GO!"

Slightly embarrassed, Grissom and Catherine raced up to the 5th floor. When they arrived, a beat up old pay phone in the hallway was ringing. Grissom slapped Archie's cassette tape into the player. "Arch, if this works you get all the funding you'll ever need." Grissom murmured to himself.

He picked up on the fourth ring.

"At last! Where the hell have you been, Andrews?" Gerard's voice came through loud and clear on the other end. Grissom felt a fresh wave of sheer anger at the sound of it. To have deduced that the big man's partner was Gerard was one thing, but actually hearing it, clear as a confession…The veteran CSI shook his head and clicked 'Play' on the tiny machine in his hand, holding it to the phone.

"It's me." It sounded like Kyle was there with them. Grissom clicked 'stop'.

"I know it's you. So, I'm guessing they agreed to your demands?" The smug satisfaction in his old mentor's voice reminded Grissom of Ecklie, and he had to fight to keep his hand from trembling with rage. He pressed 'play' again.

"Don't kill her yet." This was the moment of truth. Ellie's life depended on how Gerard reacted to this. Grissom comforted himself with the thought that right now Brass was running a trace on both this phone, and the one Gerard was holding.

"Excuse me? DON'T kill her? Are you fucking kidding? After all this trouble…"

"DO NOT. Kill her. Yet." Grissom winced. That part of the tape was still rough and patchy. He hoped Gerard hadn't noticed.

"Okay! All right! I-I won't kill her." Grissom noted the fear in Gerard's voice. Clearly, he was aware of what Andrews was capable of as well. "Can you at least tell me why not?"

Grissom knew he had to bring the conversation to an end. He prayed it was enough, both for Brass and his daughter. He clicked the play button one more time. "I will talk later."

"What…?" Grissom hung up mid-protest. Catherine sighed behind him. "That's never going to be enough time."

"I know." Grissom said quietly as his cell phone rang. "Grissom."

"Not enough time, Gil." Brass sounded older than Grissom had ever heard him. "We traced the call to somewhere near Lake Mead, but that's it. She could be anywhere there." Brass knew that if too many cops went driving around Lake Mead with their sirens on, Gerard would panic and almost certainly kill his hostage.

"It's a start, Jim. We'll find her. I promise." Grissom snapped his phone closed, and added "I just hope she's alive when we do…"

He turned to face his team. "Okay, we're not done here. Sara, you and Greg go over every inch of this place, see if there are any clues here at all. Catherine, you're good at making people fall over their own words. Go back to the station, take an officer and interrogate Kyle Andrews until either you or he snaps. Make sure it's him. Warrick, you and Nick come with me back to the lab; we're gonna go over Kyle Andrew's truck with a fine comb, see if there's anything there. Let's go."

Grissom led Warrick and Nick out of the dilapidated building and prayed that he'd done the right thing by not giving in to Andrews. If he hadn't, Brass would probably kill Andrews, Grissom, and himself. In that order.

To think today had started out as a good day…

**AN: **Once again, I am really sorry for leaving you hanging for so long. I know I sound like a broken record, but University stuff, and going out on the 'occasional' piss up does eat into your time. If I could have a few reviews, just to let me know how I'm doing, that would be great. Thanks!


	11. Chapter 10: Where is She?

**Chapter 10 – Where is she?**

**Disclaimer –** Thanks to my idiot lawyer and Mr. Bruckheimer's crack team of attorneys, I don't in fact, own CSI. Though it might not yet be too late for me to acquire Without a Trace…It is? Ah, sonuvabitch! PS: I don't own Lake Mead or any of the surrounding terrain, or the Carson Wandering Skipper. Sorry for any mistakes.

**Notes –** I'm pretty sure you already know what's going to happen in this chapter, but rest assured, it isn't the last one…Spoilers are coming in from the first season right through to the fifth season, so be advised (Look out for early 1st season…hint, hint…).

**PS –** To wdbydglvr, Beaujolais, and Emerald 124. Thank you so much for your quick reviews! I had no IDEA that I would get a response so quickly! I only hope the story ending is good enough for everybody. You've given me a hell of a confidence boost! Thank you!

"Hey, uh, Sara?"

"Yeah, Greg?"

"Now that we've, err, got a moment alone…the other night…"

Sara didn't know whether to laugh or cry. They were in the middle of processing a crime scene, with Brass' daughter as the stakes, and a man who taught both Grissom and Ecklie (more Grissom than Ecklie) everything they knew pulling the strings, and Greg wanted to talk about **that** night! Never underestimate the insecurity of a man in lust, thought Sara.

"On a scale of one to ten…"

"You're an eleven, okay?" Sara was literally smiling with irritation.

A slow, happy smile spread across Greg's face. "Okay. While that is probably the best thing I have heard in my entire life, that's not what I meant."

Sara turned around to face him, frowning slightly. "Why? What did you mean?"

"I just meant that…on a scale of one to ten, with ten being 'scream it from the rooftops', and one being 'carry it to my grave', how secret do you want it?" Greg waited patiently for Sara's answer, the crime scene temporarily forgotten.

Sara was slightly taken aback. He hadn't been asking about what she thought of _him,_ but what she thought of _this._ She was once again surprised, as she had been on that night, with the younger man's sensitivity. "Um, how's a seven sound?" She hoped that had sounded cooler out loud than it had in her head.

Greg smiled. "Say no more." He returned to his work, now entirely professional.

Sara sighed tiredly. She hoped Grissom would have better luck wherever he was going. They were getting nothing from Melanie's apartment or the hallway, other than an angry, coked up landlord whom Greg nearly had to drag out of the crime scene. Apparently, this Melanie had nothing to do with what was happening, if she even still lived here, that was…

Regardless of the obvious lack of evidence, collected or to come, Sara kept working…

And found something!

* * *

Catherine strode purposefully down to the cells, two uniformed officers in tow. She was on her way to interrogate Kyle Andrews. She would have laughed at the thought if it didn't carry such dire implications. The last time they'd tried that, Kyle had damn near interrogated **them! **She could only hope for better luck this time, Cath thought, as she approached Andrews' cell… 

"Ah, Catherine, I see your taste in companions has improved, even if your common sense hasn't." Kyle's voice was calm, relaxed, almost inviting.

Catherine was once again struck by the sheer size of the man, even as she realised that the dimensions of the tiny cell seemed to contribute to that effect. She steeled her nerves and stopped in front of the cell, trying to remember that despite Kyle's massive build, not even he could bend steel with his bare hands.

"Hey, Kyle. Let's talk." Cath decided to take the obvious approach. He clearly wasn't stupid…

"Direct. I like that." Kyle smiled easily. "I'm guessing since you're the only one present that the others are still searching for Ellie. But you, perhaps, have realised that the only way to find her is through me. Very good. You'd better get me to the phone, Catherine. I don't think there's much time left."

Catherine broke in unsmilingly. "Actually, Mr. Andrews, there's no time left. It's 6.55 pm."

Kyle's grin vanished. He looked confused...and worried. "But…that can't be, I mean, if she's dead…then…"

"Then you and Ecklie and Gerard have lost your last bargaining chip." Cath's voice was flat and unemotional, even though her pulse was racing. She might just be getting to this bastard! She had to play it carefully now…

But no. Kyle's eyes lit up as a slow, creepy grin bloomed on his lips. "I don't believe it. Brass has done a lot of things, but he'd never abandon his daughter. He would have come to me before the hour was up if he…hadn't…" Kyle once again stopped smiling.

"Found her?" Catherine added nonchalantly. God, she was enjoying this! She had this guy on a fishing line!

Sadly, it was a short-lived triumph. Kyle's face cleared as he coldly reasoned his way through this next trick. "If you'd found her, you wouldn't be wasting your time with this. You'd simply charge me and end this game."

"And therefore…?" Cath didn't back down. She was the lady on a mission.

"Therefore she isn't dead, and she isn't found. The only way that could happen is if the hour wasn't up yet!" Kyle's voice rose slightly. This was perfect, thought Cath. He'd found the answer and gone in completely the wrong direction.

"Like I said, Mr. Andrews, it's 6.55. The hour is up."

Kyle faltered, then stepped right up to the bars. "You're bluffing!"

Catherine forced herself not to step back, even as the other officers did so. She spoke in a cool, superior voice designed to erode patience, especially male patience. "It's a pity they don't put clocks in jail cells, isn't it? But there was something in the manual about convicts using the spring mechanisms to pick the locks, and we just couldn't live with that, so…"

Kyle was openly snarling now, composure fast disappearing. "You're walking a tightrope now, you old cunt!"

Catherine's eyes flashed as the insult bit deep. Of all the four-letter words in the vast human vocabulary, she hated that one the most! And tacking on 'old' at the start didn't make it any nicer. Cath visibly gritted her teeth and tried to calm down.

"_You_ are the one on a tightrope, Mr. Andrews! If you don't pull your head out of your ass and start talking, all the appeals in the world won't save you from the needle!"

Kyle's face broke into a vicious smile. "So, THAT'S why you're here! You haven't found her, and you think you can trick me into helping you. Forget it, bitch. You know the terms. Take it or leave it."

Catherine felt like kicking herself across the room. Telling herself to stay calm and stick to the plan, she ran through the good and bad of this situation. The bad part was that now Kyle Andrews knew that she was here for answers, not a deal. He also knew that they hadn't found Ellie yet, but, here was the good part, he didn't know that the hour was up, and that they had tricked Gerard into giving them more time.

This meant that with every passing second Kyle Andrews was getting more and more anxious and fearful for his own safety. Maybe she could still get something other than insults out of him, if she paced herself and stayed cool. Time wasn't on anyone's side anymore.

"Let's try again, shall we Mr. Andrews. How about doing what you wanted to do in the first place, and talk about our histories. You asked about Lindsey earlier. Well, she's doing fine. A-B student, though for a while she started acting out." Catherine said this slowly and calmly, trying to get the behemoth behind the bars to open up, even though it went against every maternal instinct she had to tell him anything about her little girl.

Kyle paused, thrown for a moment by this strange change of topic. Why was she taking her time? By now she should be frantic for information. Careful Kyle, this one's a clever girl, he thought to himself…

"Oh?" He decided to match her tone of voice, to see if he could find out what she was up to. "Has little Lindsey found out what Mommy used to do for a living yet?"

"That's why she acted out." Cath answered honestly. "But I think we're past it now."

Kyle cocked his head. She wouldn't be rushed or baited. Not yet…

* * *

Grissom killed the Tahoe's engine about a mile from Calville Bay. Brass had traced the phone call to somewhere near Lake Mead, and Grissom knew something that no one else did. No surprises there. 

Sara had found something back at Melanie's apartment, and that something had just happened to be something that Grissom specialised in. A bug. Specifically, it was a Carson Wandering Skipper. The significance of this find was not lost on Grissom, who was well aware that this species of insect was almost extinct, and shouldn't have been found anywhere near the city of Las Vegas. Their preferred habitat was on the barks of conifer trees, many of which were found in plantations and nature preserves near Lake Mead. Hence the arrival at one of those sanctuaries of Grissom, Nick, Warrick, and two entire SWAT teams. It was decided, however, that helicopters would put Ellie's kidnapper/s on alert, so they were left off the list.

They knew that for a Carson Wandering Skipper (even a dead one, for so it was) to have ended up in an inner city apartment, it would have to have been transported there by an outside source, namely a human being. This left six possible sites near Lake Mead for the call to have come from. Sadly, Kyle Andrews' log cabin was nowhere near any of them. At least, not _that_ log cabin…

"Grissom, can I ask a…"

"What, Nick?" Grissom was uncharacteristically irritable. He knew that Gerard wouldn't wait forever for Kyle's call. They had an hour, two at most, to figure out where they were before Grissom's old mentor lost his patience.

"How in the hell are we gonna find one tiny little log cabin in almost twenty square miles of conifer forest inside an hour?" Nick was feeling pretty irritable himself. He didn't see how they were going to make this, and he'd seen more than one search end badly.

"I don't know, Nick!" Grissom almost shouted. "But we have to try. This is my God-daughter we're looking for!"

"WHAT!" Warrick was brought up short. "God-daughter?"

Grissom turned to face him. "Yes. Brass asked me to be a godfather. I said yes. I watched Ellie grow up. She could never mean as much to me as she does to Brass, not after the way she treated him, but I don't want her to die!" Grissom took a breath. "I'm sorry, guys, but I'm running out of ideas, and we're all running out of time."

Just then, Grissom's cell went off. He flipped it open. "Grissom."

"Grissom! Warrick! Nick! Anybody who's listening, I've got it! I know where Ellie is! Repeat: I know where she is!"

Grissom knew that there had been moments in his life when he'd been more pleased to hear Catherine's voice, but right then, he couldn't think of any.

* * *

Catherine's head was pounding. She and the monster in the cage in front of her had discussed Lindsey, Eddie, whether or not Kyle had any children himself (naturally, he didn't) and whether or not he and Melanie had ever had a relationship. Throughout all of it, Andrews had been calm and controlled. Catherine wanted that control to snap, before her own did. 

"Melanie and I weren't an item for very long. This was before I introduced her to Eddie. However, after they broke up, she came back to me, and I felt I owed her a little moral support." Kyle grinned in sweet remembrance.

Cath suppressed her fury with some effort, not only because this man had been at least partly responsible for her and Eddie's divorce, but also because she could imagine the kind of 'moral support' this man would have offered Melanie. She put her thoughts into words.

"You killed her, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I could."

Catherine felt revulsion at the calm, matter-of-fact tone of Kyle's voice. She reflected that he probably got more pleasure from killing than sex. She managed to make her own voice equally cold. "Is that what happened with Angela Ecklie? You raped her and tore her apart."

Kyle's grin didn't waver. "Rape isn't my style, mostly because I don't need to. Besides, why would I want intimate physical contact with Angela Ecklie? She wasn't exactly what you could call beautiful, or even pretty."

Cath leaned forward. "A real Romeo, then? I bet you even took your girlfriends on little midnight boat rides…probably to dump their bodies, right?" She kept her face neutral, even though she knew she was inches from the answer.

Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking me this?"

Catherine's eyes lit up. This was it! Time for all or nothing…"If you took your girls on boat rides, that must mean you have a little place on the shore of Lake Mead."

"You know I do. It's where I found you snooping around." Kyle looked confused now.

"But is there another one? Somewhere quiet and secluded that no one knows about. Say…a conifer plantation?" Catherine couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice now.

The big man hesitated. His facial muscles tightened, his fists clenched slightly. "No." he said almost sullenly.

"It would have to be on the edge of a plantation, because you'd never be able to get in and out of a wildlife sanctuary unnoticed. Whereas in a plantation you could come and go as if you were one of the staff and no-one would be any the wiser." Catherine's voice was getting louder and faster.

"You're on the wrong…" Kyle was visibly sweating now. Everything was going to hell at once.

"McAllen's Thinleaf Alder Plantation, right on the edge of Lake Mead! That's where Ellie is!" Cath shouted in triumph as Kyle snarled in fury.

Quick as a bolt of lighting, Catherine whipped out her cell phone and dialled Grissom's number. She'd done it! They'd find Ellie!

"Grissom! Warrick! Nick! Anybody who's listening, I've got it! I know where Ellie is! Repeat: I know where she is! McAllen's Thinleaf Alder Plantation, right on the edge of the lake!"

As Catherine listened to Grissom's heartfelt congratulations, she noticed that Kyle Andrews was staring at her, a look of dawning comprehension on his face. "It was you!"

Catherine said her goodbyes to Grissom, and snapped her phone closed. "What?"

But Kyle ignored her question, staring instead at her face as if he had truly seen her for the first time. "All this time…" A slow, wicked smile began to trail across his face. "the voice on the scanner…it was you…"

"What are you talking about?" Cath's good mood was beginning to ebb.

For Kyle was now grinning insanely. "I can still remember it. That call on the scanner, just like the one you made now…"

" 'For anyone who's listening," Kyle's voice began to rise. "We got him, we got HOLLY GRIBBS' KILLER!' " Kyle's laughter rebounded off the walls terrifyingly.

Catherine felt her blood turn to ice as the world crashed to a halt around her. She felt herself lose control of her face as an expression of pure horror slid across it.

"You…you…?"

"Me." The giant leered hideously through the bars. "I killed your little girlfriend, stripper!"

"But…that-that's not possible! We…matched the DNA to our killer! You're lying!"

"Did I say I acted alone?" Andrews was growling the words out, but a furious smile of triumph was bolted on his face. "The little brat you busted was one of my less reliable customers. He brought more drugs than he could pay for, and robbed houses to cover his expenses. However, when I found out that a woman named Holly Gribbs had been sent to investigate his latest hit, I knew I had to see for myself."

"I knew her father." Andrews was snarling. "He's the reason I had to leave Los Angeles. He's the reason my cousin is dead! He's the reason," Kyle lifted his shirt. "For this."

A third degree burn snaked its way viciously across Kyle Andrews' back, tapering up his spine and ending near his left armpit. "Frank Gribbs, the detective who led a whole DEA team into my crystal meth lab at Long Beach. Who started a firefight with me and my little cousin in the middle of it!" The big man's voice was steadily rising "_Who caused a fire with all that damn shooting, and just let little Tommy burn to death inside his own home! _WHO NEARLY KILLED_ ME_" Kyle roared.

"When I saw his little girl all grown up, it was blood for blood. I would have ripped her to pieces over weeks and weeks if that little junkie bastard hadn't shot her first!" Kyle's voice turned mellow, almost introspective.

"I never did find out whether or not he was just clumsy, or if he did it out of some strange form of mercy…"

Catherine, meanwhile, was sick with rage. Her face was contorted into a look of apoplectic fury. For a moment, even the cops standing next to her looked worried.

She went for her gun, meaning to turn Kyle's cell into a shooting gallery.

"Cath, no!" It was Sara and Greg who appeared seemingly from nowhere, grabbed her hands, struggled with her for a long, horrible moment, then finally forced her to look at them. "He's not worth it, Cath! The guy's a dead man anyway! He's not worth going to prison for yourself!"

She couldn't tell who was saying what. It didn't matter. They were both right. Tears sparking in her eyes, she turned to face Kyle Andrews one more time.

"I'm going to make **_sure_** I am there when they stick a needle in you! When you see my face, you'll know I'm hoping you enjoy hell!"

With that, she wheeled around and left the cells. Not without trepidation, Sara and Greg followed…

**AN: **Yes, you're right. I've taken a lot of geographical liberties in this chapter, and probably quite a few biological ones too. I hope those of you out there who are entomologists, and those of you who live near Lake Mead and know the area better than I, will forgive me.

Just for the record, my knowledge of the Carson Wandering Skipper is next to zero, and my knowledge of the terrain surrounding Lake Mead is equally limited. If there are any particularly grievous errors I have made that really bug you, flame away.

Once again, I am very grateful for the fast reviews, and very sorry for keeping everyone waiting for so long. From now on I'm posting chapters very quickly. It's the least I can do.


	12. Chapter 11: The Last Great CSI

**Chapter 11 – The Last Great CSI…**

**Disclaimer – **Me admitting I don't own CSI is like mafia snitches admitting they don't like car trunks or the latest in concrete fashion, so there you go!

**Notes** – Not much to say here, you've all probably seen this coming, but that's brains for ya. Sometimes they are the greatest spoilers of all. Speaking of which, they are present throughout, focused mostly on 'The Accused is Entitled', but also featuring 'Ellie', 'Hollywood Brass' and 'Cool Change' to name but a few. Basically, anything from seasons 1-5 is fair game.

The drive over to McAllen's plantation was brief, yet memorable. Mostly because of Nick's initial insistence that he knew of several shortcuts that would get them there in half the time, and Grissom's undisguised opinion of such a stratagem. Both Nick and Warrick remained silent throughout the remainder of the journey.

When they arrived, they were unsurprised to find Brass' Taurus and a SWAT transport waiting for them at the entrance to the woods. Grissom fully intended to let the bad boys of the LVPD do their work. God knows he would be entirely useless in a combat situation. Brass, on the other hand, was more than willing to ride into the woods with his posse to bring back the damsel in distress.

Understandably, some of the larger SWAT members looked slightly embarrassed at this. After all, Brass was not a young man anymore, by any stretch of the imagination. However, once it became abruptly clear that Brass was going to get his little girl, authorised or not, the young lieutenant relented.

The SWAT team, with Brass more or less in tow, departed into the trees, leaving behind two of the newer recruits, Carver and Meelan, as a rear-guard. Nick bounded out of the vehicle, looking more than a little put out by the proceedings.

"Is that it? We drive all the way out here, we set a world-speed record doing it, just to sit back on our asses? Why did we even bother trying? What's the point of us hanging around out here?" Nick was almost whining.

"Nick…" began Warrick, but Grissom interrupted.

"Three reasons, young Nicholas. Firstly, we are of no use whatsoever in a situation like this, a situation which hopefully won't involve shooting, but might well end up doing just that. I notice your scores on the firing range aren't exactly first-rate stuff. Secondly, once their job is over, ours begins. We need to collect enough evidence to indict Kyle Andrews, Conrad Ecklie and Philip Gerard for the kidnapping and any murders they committed. With Marjorie Wescott defending, that means a thorough job."

Grissom turned to face Nick. "Lastly, and most importantly, she's my God-daughter, and even though she's made a real mess of her life lately…I need to see that she's all right. Okay?"

"Okay." Nick replied quietly., He understood perfectly…

"Hey Griss," Warrick piped up. "What made you think of a conifer plantation, anyway? Tell me about that bug you were talking about earlier…er…the Wandering Skimmer, or something…"

"Wandering Skipper, Warrick." Grissom's voice took on a more neutral, calm tone, as if he was giving a lecture. "And the Carson Wandering Skipper, which Sara found in Melanie's bedroom, is an endangered species. It's preferred habitat is within the trunk of a conifer tree, where it lives for…"

Nick grinned privately. Nice move, Warrick. Take Grissom's mind off his problems with the one subject he practically lives on: Entomology. He blinked after a moment as he realised that the King of Bugs had stopped talking, and was moving slowly towards the base of a relatively small Thinleaf alder. Exchanging 'I don't know' looks, the younger CSI's followed him.

Circling around to the other side of the alder, Grissom put his finger to his lips. Moving very slowly, he crouched down next to the roots. Following suit, Nick and Warrick saw that Grissom was staring at a thin red insect. Exchanging 'Figures' looks, the younger CSI's sat themselves down on the grass.

Grissom was wearing that same involved expression he wore whenever he looked at bug evidence, the almost childlike smile that said 'You have my full attention, no matter what species you are'.

"Ten points if you can guess what this is." Grissom whispered.

"Your latest girlfriend?"

"Funny man, Warrick." Grissom broke out of his trance long enough to direct a quick annoyed glance his way, then turned back to his find, which was, of course, the esteemed Carson Wandering Skipper. He stretched out his hands to try and gently catch it. And almost had a heart attack as three rapid explosions of sound echoed across the clearing and into the woods.

Terrified not just at what the sounds meant, but at their proximity, Grissom and the others darted back into the clearing and onto the road.

* * *

It didn't take Grissom long to work out what had happened.

Gerard had seen them coming. Simple as that. Stupid of Grissom to believe that his old mentor wouldn't have figured out a way to avoid a standard SWAT flanking deployment, even if he had been running scared. Grissom's mind reeled with the potential consequences of this disaster. If Gerard had seen the SWAT team approach, then what had happened to Ellie…?

Hopefully not the same as what had happened to Carver and Meelan, who now lay dead on the road. Most of their skulls were missing. Warrick noted (with a calm detachment that was almost unreal) the pack of cigarettes next to the bodies. Smoking, it seemed, could kill you in more ways than one. Both cops had taken their helmets off to light up.

Gerard was frozen in the act of opening the door of Brass' Taurus. He hadn't seen Grissom and his colleagues hunkered down by the base of the alder, only the two SWAT cops. Having blown their heads apart he'd bolted for the nearest vehicle, and had seen the CSI's at about the same time they had seen him.

Inside a second, three guns were up and trained on the old ex-criminalist. But that didn't matter, as Gerard's gun was clearly fixed on Grissom's solar plexus. Fingers froze an inch from their triggers. Nobody dared breathe for the longest of seconds.

Then Grissom broke the silence. His voice was deadly calm. "Did I say you'd become a bottom feeder, Philip? My mistake. You've become a full-blown asshole."

Philip Gerard gave Grissom the smallest of smiles. "Still sore over the way I tore your team apart on the Haviland case? Grissom, I'm surprised. You're not usually the type to hold a grudge."

"One: You **lost** the Haviland case." Warrick was growling the words out. "Two: Looks to me like you're the one who's still sore about it, and Three: I **am** the type to hold a grudge, and I haven't forgotten that case either. Put the gun down NOW!"

The last word was a shout to rival the volume of the earlier shots, and it had the intended effect of making Gerard twitch. Warrick's blood was pumping in his veins and part of him yearned to shoot. The rest of him was rigid with fear. He silently prayed that they would all make it out alive.

Nick Stokes hated guns. Hated them. More than anything he hated having them pointed at him, or in his general direction, or worst of all, at his friends. He couldn't think straight. At any second, Gerard's gun might fire, and one of them, probably Grissom, would almost certainly die. The horrible knowledge was like an iron clamp on his lungs, and a block of ice on his back.

Grissom couldn't remember feeling so enraged. So utterly betrayed. This was the man who had taken him under his wing all those years ago. He and Conrad Ecklie had learned almost everything they knew from this old man with a mad light in his eyes. This was his mentor, and he was pointing a GUN at him! At his star pupil!

With a start, Grissom noticed that his hands had begun to shake. He forced himself to hold the gun steady, as his treacherous mind waved memories of the firing range at him. He was a good shot now, but it had taken him a long time to get that way. And that was against harmless and stationary paper targets. Here he was confronted with an armed, animated and very much alive human being. One he knew, once…

Grissom spoke again, and this time his voice shook with suppressed emotion. "Why? Why, Philip?"

"Kyle can be very persuasive when he wants to be." Gerard's voice was calm, but there was a hint of tension in it. "Call it a combination of money and personal threats. After Gribbs, there was no going back…"

_Gribbs?_ Grissom knew that name from somewhere, but he had no idea what Gerard meant by it. He tried to bring the conversation back to a plane he understood.

"Where is Ellie Brass?" Grissom was sweating now and his teeth were bared. He'd never felt less in control of a situation than now.

"The SWAT team will have found her by now." Gerard told him unsmilingly.

"What do you mean? Is she still alive?" Grissom's voice wavered and broke slightly on the last sentence.

"No u…"

If it came as a surprise to Gerard when Grissom's gun fired, it came as even more of a surprise to Grissom. Moreover, there was no time for it to register. The bullet entered Gerard's mouth, and left through the base of his skull, taking most of the cerebellum with it. There was simply not enough time for his ruined brain to send the neural message to open fire to his fingers. Instead, the gun fell lamely to the ground.

Half a second later, Warrick and Nick both opened up, tearing holes in the driver's-side door of Brass' Taurus and flinging what was left of Grissom's old mentor against the shattered window.

"**Stop!** STOP IT!" Grissom yelled, pulling both their guns down. The echoes of gunfire died away gradually, replaced by something worse. Utter silence. Then frightened, rapid breathing from the three survivors.

"…what the hell did I do?" Grissom's voice was quiet and subdued and terrified. The voice of a little child who has broken Granny's favourite vase. He remembered what he'd said to Gerard on the Haviland case: _"All those years I worked for you, you never got to know me at all, did you?"_

Grissom now realised that not only had Gerard not gotten to know him, he didn't even know himself. At least, not anymore…

Had he meant to pull the trigger? No! No way! He couldn't have! The gun went off by itself…didn't it? What had Gerard said? His last words had been "No u…" What was that? What did that mean? With a sickening jolt, Grissom realised that now he would never know. He would never know what had motivated Gerard to do this, or what he had meant.

Because guns never answered questions. They only stopped them forever.

It was this train of thought that his mind was caught in when Brass and the others arrived to discover the three CSI survivors amidst the carnage. With considerable relief, Grissom saw that Brass was holding a gaunt, terrified but assuredly alive Ellie in his arms.

Nick and Warrick finally broke into tired smiles. Ellie tentatively returned them.

* * *

Despite having several holes in the driver's side door, Brass' Taurus made the journey back to Las Vegas. Grissom knew that Ellie and her father were going to stop off at their house, and he planned to make the rest of the trip in Nick's Tahoe. However, he needed this one opportunity while the events were still fresh in her mind.

"Ellie, listen. I know this is going to be hard, but I need you to think. Do you remember anything that Gerard said that might be important?"

Ellie replied between quiet, hitching sobs. "All I remember is the big man. That huge bastard that kidnapped me. I remember he…he talked to that old guy about getting somebody called Ecklie out of jail so they could kill him. I was supposed to be some kind of _insurance_" she spat the word out "in case things went wrong."

Grissom's mind was reeling. Gerard and the giant set this whole thing up to kill Ecklie! "But why were they paying Ecklie to screw up certain cases in the first place. What could be in it for them?"

Ellie seemed to think it over. "You should probably ask this Ecklie guy, but my guess is money. There were piles of it all over the house."

Brass nodded grimly. "Yeah, I imagine a lot of cons would pay good money to have the evidence against them kicked in court. Especially Tom Haviland."

Grissom's voice was cold with anger. "So all they have to do is tell Marjorie Wescott which evidence needs to go, and she tells Gerard, who tells Ecklie to take care of it. God, it's like an anti-CSI unit!"

"We don't know that Marjorie Wescott's involved yet Griss," interjected Brass "although it would fit. I'll start checking her out tomorrow. Meanwhile we need to get some rest…"

"Wait, Jim. I-I'm sorry, but I just need one more question. Ellie, did you ever hear the name Gribbs mentioned at any time?" Grissom was keeping his voice even and gentle, not without difficulty, as his gut was still churning over the shooting.

Brass frowned. "Gribbs…Gribbs…I've heard that name before…Shit! Holly Gribbs! Remember, Grissom? Before Sara arrived?"

"How could I forget?" Suddenly it all made sense. For whatever reason, Gerard had told Kyle Andrews about Holly Gribbs, and where she was in Vegas. Anyone with a police scanner would have known that Gribbs was investigating a robbery on that day, but not necessarily that she had been alone…

The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Now all that was left was to confirm it. By having another little talk with Kyle Andrews…

Grissom said his goodbyes to Brass and his daughter, and headed for Nick's Tahoe, where he and Warrick were waiting. Grissom idly wondered if Warrick still carried the weight of Gribbs' death on his shoulders. He hoped not. Either way, this news wasn't going to be pleasant for him.

Sighing heavily, Grissom climbed into the back. This was still going to be a long night…

It had been generally agreed between Catherine Willows and the six or seven cops that had escorted him to his cell, that Kyle Andrews, for all his terrifying strength, could not bend steel.

They were right. But he had absolutely no problems with bone, as the cop in his former cell could have testified to.

Not that she could testify to anything now.

**AN:** As I mentioned before, my knowledge of the Carson Wandering Skipper is limited at best. If I have misrepresented the facts surrounding this insect in any way that particularly annoys you, feel free to flame (but don't go nuts, okay?).


	13. Epilogue: The Beast

**Epilogue – The Beast.**

**Disclaimer – **Put two and two together will ya!

**Notes –** Nothing to report here, other than watch out for the rampant spoilers. And yes, this is going to be the last big fight before the end (if you couldn't see that coming then you should repeat whatever stage of education you are in!) Sorry if the ending of this story is something of a disappointment to you, reader, but it's what I've got. Enjoy! 

Grissom arrived at the crime lab feeling much the same way he did when he left the alder plantation. No, check that, he felt worse. Now there was less to do, giving more time for him to think.

He had just killed a person. _Killed _him. Accident or not, a man was dead because of him. And not just any man, but his mentor, the same person who had interested a young Gilbert Grissom in forensics in the first place. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was meant to arrest killers, not become one.

He trudged into the break room to find Catherine already there, nursing a cup of Greg's Blue Hawaiian coffee. From the look on her face, she hadn't had the time of her life on this case either, but when Grissom walked in, she forced a smile onto her face.

"Hey. I heard they got Ellie out of there?"

"They did." Grissom replied with little enthusiasm. "She and Brass have gone home to recuperate."

Cath cocked her head. "I also heard there was a shootout."

Grissom said nothing. Catherine turned back to her mug. "You know," she began in a low tone "you had us pretty worried for a while. Are you OK?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then. Now let's try 'you're not OK, so what's up?'"

Grissom smiled, despite himself. Catherine Willows was probably the only person in the world who could read him like a book. She almost certainly knew what was wrong, but had also decided that the best thing for Grissom would be to describe it himself. To let it all out.

He, in turn, could usually tell what Cath was thinking. Right now it was along the lines of "I am not going to let up on him until he opens up. Just let him try to avoid this conversation". So he told her. He told her everything, from when they arrived at the alder plantation, to when he had told Warrick that Kyle Andrews was really the one responsible for Holly Gribbs' murder.

Grissom finally asked her a question, in a small voice. "When you killed Syd Goggle, the Strip Strangler, did you feel this empty?"

Cath shook her head. "No. There is not a doubt in my mind that Goggle would have killed you if I hadn't. That makes it very much okay with me."

Grissom sighed. He'd been afraid of that.

Cath continued. "I'm not saying I didn't feel anything, though. For a while I felt scared, as though I had changed forever. I spent about a month convincing myself that wasn't the case, until I finally realised how stupid that was. I had changed, in a fundamental way. I would never be the same person again, ever."

She leaned in close. "But that doesn't mean I became a worse person for having made that choice. Change isn't always a bad thing."

"For me it is." Grissom murmured. "And I don't know if I made a choice at all. That's going to haunt me, maybe for the rest of my life."

Catherine's voice took on a calm, but intense tone "Not unless you let it."

Tears finally began to spill over Grissom's cheeks, and Catherine's face softened. "He was my mentor, Cath. He was…my friend. I-I just wish h…"

What Grissom wished remained unsaid, as they were rudely interrupted by Detective Vega quite literally flying down the crime lab corridor.

Grissom was shocked out of his mood by the sound of screaming.

* * *

Warrick was thinking about death. Gerard's. Gribbs'. His own. 

He felt like someone had ripped a hole in his stomach. Kyle Andrews had killed Holly Gribbs, or had at least had a hand in her death. That kid they'd arrested had just been a pawn. And none of it would have happened at all if it wasn't for him.

He was reminded of the old play by J.B. Priestly: An Inspector Calls. Five people had all unknowingly, yet stupidly contributed to the death of an innocent girl. Now Warrick knew how they must have felt at the end of the play, had they been real.

Holly Gribbs. Grissom brought her to Vegas. Catherine convinced her to stay. Brass sent her out into the field. Warrick abandoned her. Gerard told Kyle where she was. Kyle went to find her. And that little junkie son of a bitch had pulled the trigger.

They all helped to kill her. And Warrick was going to have to live with that, all over again.

He looked up to find he had arrived at the morgue. Figures, he thought. The body goes where the mind is. Maybe Doc Robbins could help him, if he felt like talking. He could sometimes double as a psychiatrist, at least in Warrick's opinion. He stepped inside.

And found himself face to chest with Kyle Andrews.

For one moment Warrick felt sure his heart was going to punch it's way through his ribs. When he had first seen him from a distance, Kyle had towered over him, and had been a menacing sight, even when calm. Now, up close, face contorted in insane rage, with a seriously hurt (if not dead) David at his feet, he was beyond terrifying.

Warrick knew if he ran, he wouldn't get more than three feet from the giant man before his neck was broken. If he drew his gun, Kyle would retrieve it, along with a good part of the arm that was holding it. So that left him with one option, by far and away the stupidest and most reckless. He lowered his head and charged.

Kyle was caught off guard, enough for Warrick to overbalance him, but it didn't last long. His counter to Warrick's insane move was a simple, almost automatic one. Rather than wasting time with a well-aimed jab or an uppercut, he simply brought his fist down and thumped Warrick on the head.

The incredible shock of the blow dislocated Warrick's mind from the rest of him. For a moment he didn't know who, where, or what he was. Then, as criminal and criminalist crashed onto the steel surgical table together, the force of the new impact jolted Warrick back into his senses, and forced him to face the reality of a skull that felt like it was being held together by sticky tape and positive thinking.

Kyle wrenched himself up, heaving Warrick off him. He lashed out with his right hand in a sweeping arc that dropped the ex-gambler to the floor. Warrick made one valiant effort to get up, and promptly sank into unconsciousness…

* * *

Vega gulped down his coffee with unusual satisfaction. Sara had been right. That Sanders kid, whatever else he might be, knew what was good coffee and what was bad coffee. Vega made a mental note to check how much this Blue Hawaiian stuff cost per ton. 

There was another, more substantial reason for Vega's good mood. He had some news that was going to make the CSI's very happy people. The new Assistant Lab Director, one Elisabeth Nielsen (or 'Lizzie', she hated formalities) was as different from the anal-retentive Conrad Ecklie as you could hope for. Firm but fair, and not above pulling her own weight (she was a CSI herself, with an excellent case record), Lizzie had made the decision to create a precedent; namely the first CSI liase unit.

In effect, this meant that the Day and Graveyard shifts, if they so chose, could work together, or exchange team members as they saw fit. Catherine Willows was, effective immediately, promoted to her long-awaited position of Day shift supervisor, and CSI's Stokes, Brown, Sidle, Sanders and Curtis could pretty much choose their shifts. All it needed was the official all clear from the shift leaders themselves (unlike Ecklie's autocratic style of command, Lizzie Nielsen was far more democratic).

Vega felt sure that the others would be just as pleased with these developments as he was. He bumped into Sara and Greg in front of the break room.

"Hey, guys, have you seen Warrick and Nick anywhere?"

Sara replied "Uh, we haven't seen Nick since he got back from the plantation, but Warrick, I think, went into the morgue a while ago."

Greg nodded. "Man, I hope Nick's okay. I heard there was a gunfight out there…"

Vega gestured towards the break room where Grissom and Catherine were deep in conversation. "Listen, I've got some great news. Hang on while I find Nick and Warrick, and then meet me in the break room for a hell of a treat!"

Greg cracked a mischievous grin. "Ooohh. Do I hear a voice whispering 'raise'?"

"Dream on, Greg." deadpanned Sara.

Vega strode over to the morgue and opened the door. He instantly regretted it.

Vega had time to register a brief, confused image of Warrick and David, both on the ground and bleeding copiously, and _someone_ looming over them, hands reaching for Warrick.He had time to further register who that massive someone was before he vaulted over the steel table and planted both feet firmly against Vega's chest.

He was flung backwards about twelve feet, past the break room door and two very shocked young scientists. Greg and Sara had screamed in surprise when Vega flew past them. Now most of the crime lab staff (whose attention had been most assuredly drawn and fixed by the proceedings) screamed in fear as the gigantic form of Kyle Andrews stormed its way out of the morgue.

Grissom and Catherine bolted up from the coffee table in the break room and headed for the door. Grissom, being nearest, got there first, and opened it onto a heart-freezing sight. Kyle Andrews, free, unrestrained, and furious, advancing on a terrified Sara and Greg, both of whom had chosen this decidedly inconvenient time to freeze up.

Seeing, above all else, that Sara Sidle was in danger, Grissom reacted automatically, charging out of the room with pistol drawn. Without even looking at him, Kyle threw out an open-handed strike that propelled Grissom into the nearest wall, knocking him out.

One massive hand clamped around Sara's throat and lifted her effortlessly into the air. She clawed frantically at it, and lashed out at Kyle's stomach with her legs. The result was nothing more than broken nails and stubbed toes, which were the least of her immediate worries.

Greg saw what was happening to Sara and panicked. He hand went to his hip, but of course the stupid gun was in the locker room. Reacting with idiot optimism, he grabbed the nearest object to hand (an unopened Budweiser bottle) and threw it as hard as he could at Andrews' head.

Amazingly, it connected with his solar plexus, knocking him off balance. Reflexively, his hand opened, and Sara dropped, choking, to the floor.

"**_Let her go!_**" yelled Greg as he charged forward, as if unaware that Kyle had already done so. Upon reaching the behemoth, he began to pummel him with both fists, throwing all of his not inconsiderable strength behind them.

He might as well have been punching a concrete wall. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck with one hand, and the belt of his Levi's with the other, the giant man hefted Greg as if he was made of cotton, and slammed him, back first, into the ceiling.

Mindless agony ricocheted up and down Greg's spinal cord, but Andrews' punishment against this insolent little scum for daring to attack him was not over. Pulling Greg down, he threw him bodily towards the nearest glass surface.

And so for the second time in his illustrious career, Greg Sanders found himself crashing through the wall of what was once his DNA lab. Only this time, he was travelling inwards, not outwards, and he had something besides the ground to break his fall. Namely Mia Dickerson, who caught Greg's full weight across her spine. Both past and present lab techs fell together, neither planning to get up for some time.

"**No, Bastard!" **shouted Catherine from behind Andrews. She raised her gun to his back, meaning to empty her pistol into the base of his spine. This time it was Kyle himself who stopped her from shooting him, not Greg or Sara. Spinning around with unreal speed, he grabbed her arm just above the elbow and pulled it upwards, breaking the bone cleanly in two.

Screaming in agony, Cath doubled over as Nick raced around the corner, stopping dead as his eyes told his brain what was happening. Through her pain, she dazedly wished that she had killed this fucker when she'd had the chance.

Kyle, now the epitome of calmness, picked up Catherine's dropped gun, aimed in Nick's general direction, and fired.

Two things saved Nick from being turned into a brand new crime scene. Firstly, his ability to move quickly (in this case ducking behind cover). Secondly, the fact that Kyle's incredible size, whilst a considerable advantage in close combat, was a detriment in at least one regard; it took half a second for his huge finger to fit into the trigger loop of Cath's relatively tiny pistol.

Which is fortunate, because the first bullet missed Nick by two inches, instead shattering several panes of glass behind him. The crime lab staff went berserk, and alarms began to trill mindlessly from everywhere. Kyle fired again, this time aiming at the nearest of the uniformed cops responding to the alarms. The unfortunate officer died instantly, as his buddies dived for cover and dodged the stampeding lab techs.

'How the hell can I be in two gunfights in as many hours!' Nick's mind gibbered frantically. The sound of the shots alone was enough to persuade him not to move a muscle.

Kyle, meanwhile, kept one hand firing off a shot every few seconds, while the other reached down towards the wailing, pain-stricken Catherine. Oh, he was going to enjoy this one. That bitch had earned every minute of her demise, and if Kyle could hold the police back long enough, he could get her far enough away to ensure that it was a lot of minutes. Maybe he could even introduce her to the same fiery death he had planned for Holly…

His leg! Pain in his left leg! Kyle bellowed in agony as Sara plunged a shard of shattered glass into the back of his knee. He had forgotten the fucking brunette and now she had stabbed him! HIM! For perhaps the first time in his life, Kyle Andrews felt the stirrings of real horror. He had never been so hurt, so fundamentally wounded. The fear he felt was that of a man who experiences something terrible that they have not encountered before, and they wonder if their lives are at risk…

Kyle turned around, gun forgotten now. He would snap this skinny little brat in two before he concentrated on the redhead bitch and her faggot friends. No-one did this to him and lived.

The prolonged silence (broken only by the sound of smashing glass, and the fading trill of the alarm) prompted Nick and the rest of the uniform cops, who had now been joined by Detectives O'Riley and Conroy, to inch their way forward, guns drawn and fingers on the triggers. Nick's survival instinct couldn't quite believe what he was doing, but the people in trouble were his best friends, and he couldn't just sit there. He had to at least try to help them.

But Kyle, and Sara, were not in sight. Catherine, wheezing with pain, picked herself up and (left-handed) drew her other gun, the one nobody had ever known about, not Grissom, not Eddie, not all the drunken assholes back at the French Palace who'd thought that a few beers meant she was as good as theirs. She had never before needed to use it. It was a weapon of last resort. She needed it now.

Because she alone could see what was happening to Greg.

* * *

The giant fist came down again, and a sound like twigs snapping convinced Greg that none of his ribs were intact anymore. The pain was unbearable! He couldn't even draw in enough of a breath to scream. The other hand pressed against his stomach, slowly crushing him into the break room table. He saw Kyle's face through a haze of agony, and spat a mouthful of blood into his eyes, his last trick. 

It only served to infuriate the big man even more. He head-butted Greg, driving his nose against his face, and spun him around. For a moment he genuinely regretted picking himself up and hurling himself against Kyle Andrews. He had flung the whole weight of his body at the living colossus, and, in case that wasn't enough, had brought one of Mia's lab beakers in an over-arm swing to impact Kyle's amazed face.

The good news was that the shock of both impacts had propelled Kyle backwards, into the break room, and had caused him to instantly forget his tender ministrations toward Sara. The bad news was that Greg now had his complete attention…

Yes, he regretted it now, all right. What was the use of any defiance against this incredible physical punishment? Why hadn't he just lain there, safe, and let him kill Sara? Why was he thinking these things, when the answers to both questions were obvious?

It dawned on Greg that the pain had, mercifully, stopped, if only for a moment. He opened his eyes, blinking against the red sheen that was his own blood. Catherine, face wracked with pain and worry, was holding a gun crookedly at Kyle's chest.

Which Greg was now in front of. Because Kyle was holding him there. Stupidly, he tried to move. Ridiculous! How could he have expected his body to respond to any mental command when it was in this state? All the fight was out of him. He could barely keep his eyes open.

He realised that Catherine was holding the gun with her left hand, and that her right was hanging at her side at a warped angle. It was clearly broken. Greg's heart ached with sympathy, until a breath drew two edges of rib against each other and he started feeling sorry for himself again.

Catherine was in a similar state of mind. She would feel sorry for Greg later. Right now her arm felt like someone was dragging it through a pile of rusted nails. Every inch of her wanted to kill this filthy piece of shit for what he had done, but Greg was in the way of her fire. Her aim wasn't good enough with her left hand to try and shoot anyway. Why couldn't I have my right arm instead, thought Cath tiredly.

She opened her mouth to speak, to try to talk Kyle into a mistake like she had last time, but nothing came out, other than ragged breaths. What was the use? What could she say to this beast of a human being? Whatever she tried, it wouldn't work. This unbelievable monster couldn't show mercy. It just wasn't going to happen.

She made ready to do one of two things. Drop her gun and surrender, or open fire and hope for the best. Then she saw. And smiled.

Kyle knew what was happening before he saw Catherine smile. There were two entrances to the break room. Cath was at one, the other was behind him.

Fear plunged an icy knife into his stomach. Behind him! He knew who it was before he even turned around. Who else would it be?

Sure enough, there, with a hand held to his bleeding head, the other holding his own gun, stood Warrick Brown. There was no fire, or fear, in his eyes. Only serenity.

As Kyle turned around to face (and kill) this new threat, he made his only mistake of the night. He pulled Greg's limp form with him.

Catherine's shaking hand steadied, and, mind free of all other influences, she fired.

The bullet struck Kyle Andrews just below his right armpit. This time there was no roar of pain and bestial rage. There was only a high pitched wail, the sound of one whose body has been invaded by something cold and lethal, who knew beyond all doubt that he was about to die.

Greg, released from Kyle's grip, dropped to the floor, unnoticed.

Warrick looked over at the woman he had come to respect above all others, to count among his most beloved and trusted friends, and mouthed two words. She agreed.

* * *

The sound of gunfire jerked Grissom back into consciousness. He opened his eyes, raised his head, and saw two things. The first was immensely satisfying and utterly hideous at the same time. The second was stamped on his brain forever. 

The first was that, big as Kyle Andrews was, when faced with two guns at once he was just as mortal as the rest of humanity. He jerked and writhed pitifully, thrown back and forth by the laws of physics.

The second was that, once again, he saw Catherine, his best and most trusted friend, killing someone. But this time, there was no look of fear, or even concern, on her face. Not the look she had when Syd Goggle had fallen beneath her bullets.

This time there was a grin on her face. Joyless. Savage. Insane. Thankful for the opportunity. She would never regret this.

Not ever.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the shooting was over and Kyle's ruined body fell to the floor. Catherine's smile instantly collapsed as she and Warrick raced over to the other occupant of the break room carpet.

"Greg! GREG! Are you okay? Oh my God! Greg!" Both were speaking at once, the words tumbling out of their mouths, all joy at the joint kill forgotten like a bad dream, all personal pain shoved aside.

Greg's eyes fluttered open. His lips moved. Catherine leaned forward to hear what he had said. When he repeated it, she smiled with genuine affection. No more mad rage. Just the one and only Catherine Willows.

"What did he say?" Warrick wondered aloud.

Still smiling, Catherine turned to him. "He said, 'I was winning.'"

* * *

The crime lab was a mess. More or less all of the CSI's were going to the hospital. Grissom, Warrick and David all had concussions, and David had a fractured leg to add to that. Catherine's arm was broken. Sara had a bruised face from where Kyle had smacked her before Greg had jumped in, and her neck was a raw red. Nick was, for once, unscathed. Greg had several fractured ribs, and a spinal injury, along with a broken nose. Mia Dickerson's back had been thrown out, and she had a few shallow cuts on her head from the glass. Five officers, Lent, Stevens, McIntyre, Foy, and Carter, were all dead. 

It had been a long, horrible night, but it was finally over, Grissom reflected tiredly in the back of the ambulance. Greg, meanwhile, was too far gone on morphine to reflect on anything much. Nick was thinking that he was _definitely_ putting in for extra pay and a vacation on this one, new director or not. Sara, though touched by Greg's selflessness, was wondering why he had charged on Kyle when she herself had been on the verge of shooting him with the gun he had dropped.

Catherine and Warrick were both thinking the same thing. What Warrick had said right before they had killed the giant man. The two words, inaudible, but, clear.

"For Holly."

**The End.**

**AN:** There's my story. Just the way I wanted it. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I hope to start on more fics sometime. In the meantime, I would like to thank you all for taking the time to read and review my story, and tell you that your comments made it well worth the effort.

Wdbydoglvr, beaujolais, Emerald124, Kegel, Shadowwind, Punctie, Psuedanonymous...

Thank you all so much!


End file.
